81 




Book .EF.5% 



__ 










TMROMS SfflOOISI. 



THE 



POfflVZOAIL W©SES 



OF 



THOMAS MOORE, 



INCLUDING HIS 



j&eUfrieg, UaUaJra, etc* 



COMPLETE IK OM VOLUME 




lijtiatrelpSta: 

CRISSY & MAEKLEY, GOLDSMITH'S HALL, 

LIBRARY STREET. 

AND CHARLES DESILVER,No.7U CHESTNUT STREET. 



TK re TO 
.E S-2 



CONTENTS. 





Page. 




LALLA ROOKH. 






The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan 


. 28 




Paradise and the Peri 


49 




The Fire-worshippers . . 


. 56 




The Light of the Haram 


77 




Notes ... ... 


. 86 




EPISTLES, ODES, and OTHER POEMS. 






Dedication 


99 




Preface 


. ib. 




Epistle I. To Lord Viscount Strangford 100 




Stanzas 


101 




The Tell-tale Lyre .... 


. ib. 




To the Flying Fish . 


. 102 




Epistle II. To Miss M— e . 


. ib. 




To Cara 


103 




To ditto 


. 104 




To the Invisible Girl 


ib. 




Peace and Glory .... 


. t&. 




To , 1801 .... 


, 105 




Song . 


. ib. 




The Lake of the Dismal Swamp . 


. ib. 




Epistle III. To the Marchioness Dowager 




of D 11 . . . . 


. 106 




The Genius of Harmony 


. 107 




Epistle IV. To G. Morgan, Esquire 


. 108 




Tuning 


109 




To , on seeing her with a white 




veil and a rich girdle . 


110 




The Resemblance . . . 


ib. 




To .... 


ib. 




From the Greek of Meleager . 


Ill 






. ib. 




Odes to Nea .... 


, ib. 




I pray you let us roam no more . 


. 112 




You read it in my languid eyes 


ib. 






. ib. 




Well — peace to thy heart 


. 113 




If I were yonder wave - . . 


. ib. 




On seeing an infant in Nea's arms . 


. 114 




The Snow Spirit .... 


. ib. 




I stole along the flowery bank 


ib. 




On the loss of a letter intended for Nea 


. 115 




1 found her not .... 


. ib. 




A Kiss a V Antique .... 


. ib. 




There's not a look, a word of thine 


116 






. ib. 




Love and Reason .... 


117 




Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear 


. ib. 




Aspasia .... «, 


118 




The Grecian Girl's Dream . . 


. ib. 




The Senses ..... 


. 120 




The Steersman's Song . . . 


ib. 




ToCloe . 


121 




To the Fire-fly 


. ib. 




The Vase .... 


ib. 




The Wreath and the Chain 


. ib.l 





1 ago. 
The timid girl now hung her head . . 121 
To 122 

Epistle VI. To Lord Viscount Forbes ib. 
Song ... ... 124 

Lying ib. 

Anacreontic ... . . ib. 

To 's Picture ... ib. 

Fragment of a Mythological Hymn . 125 

To the Duke of Montpensier . - ib. 

Aristippus to his Lamp ib. 

To Mrs. B— 1— d, written in her Album . 127 
Epistle VII. To T. Hume, Esq. . ib. 

The Snake . . . .129 

Lines written on leaving Philadelphia ib. 

The fall of Hebe ib. 

To ... .131 

Anacreontic .... ib. 

To Mrs. , on some calumnies against 

her character 132 

Hymn of a Virgin of Delphi, at the tomb of 

her mother ib 

Rings and Seals .... ib. 

To Miss Susan B-ckf— d . . 133 

Lines written at the Cohos falls . ib. 

Chloris and Fanny . . 134 

To Miss ib. 

To , on asking me to address a 

poem to her ib. 

Song of the Evil Spirit of the Woods . ib. 
To Mrs. Henry T-ghe . . . .135 
Impromptu on leaving some friends . 136 
Epistle VIII. To the Rt. Hon. W R. 

Spencer ... . ib. 

A Warning 137 

To ib. 

From the High Priest of Apollo, to a Virgin 

of Delphi . . . 133 

Woman 139 

Ballad Stanzas . . . . ib. 

To-:: ib. 

A Vision of Philosophy .... 140 

To 142 

Dreams . ib. 

To Mrs. 143 

A Canadian boat-song . . . . ib 
Epistle IX. To the Lady Charlotte R-wd-n ib. 
Impromptu, after a visit to Mrs. , of 

Montreal ... . 145 

Lines written on passing Deadman's Island 146 
To the Boston frigate ib. 

To Lady H , on an old ring, found at 

Tunbridge-wells .... 147 

To A. 

Extract from the Devil among the Scholars ib 
Fragments of a Journal .... 150 
To a Friend 152 



CONTENTS. 



Pasre. 
Fanny, my love, we ne'er were sages . . 152 

Song ib. 

From the Greek ib. 

On a beautiful East-Indian ... ib. 

To . ... ib. 

At night . . . 153 

To ib. 

INTERCEPTED LETTERS ; or, THE TWO- 
PENNY POST-BAG 
Dedication, Prefaces, etc. . 154 

Appendix . . . ib. 

THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 

Preface, etc 164 

Notes . 183 

TOM CRIB'S MEMORIAL TO CONGRESS. 

Preface, etc. 185 

RHYMES ON THE ROAD, etc. . 201 

Notes .209 

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE. 

The Dissolution of the Holy Alliance . 210 
The Looking-glasses . . . .211 
The Fly and the Bullock . . . .212 

Church and State 213 

The Little Grand Lama . . . .214 

The Extinguishers 216 

CORRUPTION (an epistle,) Preface, etc . . 217 
INTOLERANCE (a poem) .... 223 

Appendix ....... 226 

THE SCEPTIC, Preface, etc. . . 228 

ODES OF ANACREON. 

Index showing the number of each 

Ode in Barnes' and other editions 232 

An Ode by the Translator . . 233 
Remarks on Anacreon . . . ib. 

I. I saw the smiling bard of pleasure 237 
II. Give me the harp of epic song . ib. 

III. Listen to the Muse's Lyre . . 238 

IV. Vulcan! hear your glorious task . ib. 
V. Grave me a cup with brilliant grace ib. 

VI. As late I sought the spangled bowers ib. 
VII. The women tell me every day . . 239 
VIII. I care not for the idle state . . ib. 
IX. I pray thee by the gods above . . 240 
X. Tell me how to punish thee . . ib. 
XL Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee . ib. 
XII. They tell how Atys, wild with love ib. 

XIII. I will, I will; the conflict 's past . 241 

XIV. Count me on the summer trees . ib. 
XV. Tell me why, my sweetest dove . 242 

XVI. Thou, whose soft and rosy hues . 243 
XVII. And now, with all thy pencil's truth 244 
XVIII. Now the star of day is high . .245 
XIX. Here recline you, gentle maid . 246 
XX. One day the Muses twined the hands ib. 
XXI Observe when mother Earth is dry 247 
XXII The Phrygian rock that braves the 

storm .... ib. 

XXIII I often wish this languid lyre . 248 
XXIV. To all that breathe the airs of heaven ib. 
XXV. Once in each revolving year . 249 

XXVI. Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms ib. 
XXVII. We read the flying courser's name ib. 
XXVIH As in the Lemnian cares of fire 250 



Pap;p 

XXIX. Yes — loving is a painful thrill . . ib 

XXX. 'T was in an airy dream of night . 251 

XXXI. Arm'd with a hyacinthine rod . . ib. 

XXXII. Strew me a breathing bed of leaves ib. 

XXXIII. 'T was noon of night when round the 

pole 252 

XXXIV. Oh thou of all creation blesVd . ib. 
XXXV. Cupid once upon a bed . 253 

XXXVI. If hoarded gold possess'd a power ib. 

XXXVII. 'Twas night, and many a circling bowl 254 

XXXVIII. Let us drain the nectar' d bowl ib 

XXXIX. How I love the festive boy . . 255 

XL. I know that Heaven ordains me here ib. 

XLI. When Spring begems the dewy scene ib 

XLII. Yes, be the glorious revel mine . 25G 

XLIII. While our rosy fillets shed . . ib 

XLIV. Buds of roses, virgin flowers . . ib 

XLV. Within this goblet, rich and deep . 257 

XLVI. See, the young, the rosy spring ib 

XLVII. 'T is true, my fading years decline ib. 

XLVIII. When my thirsty soul I steep . 258 

XLIX. When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy ib. 

L. When I drink, I feel, I feel . ib. 

LI. Fly not thus my brow of snow 259 

LII. Away, away, you men of rules ib 

LIII. When I behold the festive train ib 

LIV. Methinks the pictured bull we see . 260 

LV. While we invoke the wreathed spring ib 

LVI. He who instructs the youthful crew 26] 

LVII. And whose immortal hand could shed 262 

LVIII. When gold, as fleet as Zephyr's pinion ib 

LIX. Sabled by the solar beam . 263 

LX. Awake to life, my dulcet shell . . 264 

LXI. Golden hues of youth are fled . ib. 

LXII. Fill me, boy, as deep a draught . 255 

LXIII. To Love, the soft and blooming child ib 

LXIV. Haste thee, nymph, whose winged 

spear . . . . . ib. 

LXV. Like some wanton filly sporting . ib. 

LXVI. To thee, the queen of nymphs divine 266 

LXVII. Gentle youth ! whose looks assume . ib 

LXVIII. Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn . ib 

LXIX. Now Neptune's sullen month appears ib. 

LXX. They wove the lotus band, to dec* . 267 

LXXI. A broken cake, with honey sweet ih. 

LXXII. With twenty chords my lyre is hung ib. 

LXXIII. Fare thee well, perfidious maid . ib 

LXXIV. I bloom'd awhile, a happy flower . ib 

LXXV. Monarch Love ! resistless boy . . ib 

LXXVI. Spirit of Love, whose tresses shine il 

LXXVII. Hither, gentle muse of mine . 263 

LXXVIII. Would that I were a tuneful lyre ib 

LXXIX. When Cupid sees my beard of snow ib 

Fragments 

Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray . ib 

Let me resign a wretched breath . ib 

I know thou lovest a brimming measure . ib 

I fear that love disturbs my rest . . ib 

From dread Leucadia's frowning steep . ib 

Mix me, child, a cup divine . . . ib 

Epigrams translated from Antipater 

SlDONIUS. 

Around the tomb, oh bard divine ! . . 269 
Here sleeps Anacreon. in this ivied shade & 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 
Oh stranger ! if Anaereon's shell . 269 

At length thy golden hours have wing'd their 

flight ... 270 

LITTLE'S POEMS. ' 

Preface • • • 271 

Dedication ... • 272 

To Julia *■ 

To a Lady, with some manuscript poems ib. 

To Mrs. 273 

To the large and beautiful Miss . ib. 

To Julia & 

Inconstancy .... w. 

Imitation of Catullus .... ib. 
Epigram .....♦• 274 

To Julia *• 

Song *• 

Nature's Labels $• 

To Mrs. M . • • 275 

Song ... .»••*&. 

To Julia . .' - • *• 

Impromptu •••••• l b- 

To Rosa ..... • *• 

Sympathy .... *• 

To Julia 276 

To Mrs. &■ 

On the Death of a Lady . . . . ib. 

To Julia ib- 

To &■ 

Written in the blank leaf of a Lady's com- 

mon-place book . ,. . . ib. 

Song 277 

To Rosa #• 

To Ditto ... ;....-*. 

Rondeau » ib. 

An Argument to any Phillis or Chloe . ib. 

To Rosa ib- 

Anacreontique ...... 278 

Ditto ib. 

| Oh, woman, if by simple wile . . . ib. 

\ Love and Marriage ib. 

The Kiss ib. 

To Miss ...'■!..« ib. 

Nonsense ... • . 279 

To Julia, on her birth-day . . ib. 

Elegiac Stanzas ......#>. 

To Rosa .... ib. 

Love in a Storm * • • ib. 

Song . ■ ••••&. 

The surprise . ... 280 

To a sleeping maid • • . . . ib. 

To Phillis ib. 

Song . . . . . . ib. 

The Ballad . . . . . • ib. 

To Mrs. , on her translation of Voi- 

ture's Kiss ib. 

To a Lady, on her Singing . . . ib. 

A Dream ib. 

Written in a common-place book . .281 

To the pretty little Mrs. . . ib. 

Song - . ib. 

The tear . . ib. 

To ib. 

To Ju'xia weeping . . ib. 

Song . . . ' • • • . ib. 



The Shield 
To Mrs. — 



i 



Elegiac Stanzas . . . 
Fanny of Timmol • . 
A Night-thought 
Elegiac Stanzas . • 

The Kiss 

To 

A reflection at Sea . . 
An Invitation to Supper . 
An ode upon morning 

Song 

Come, tell me where the maid is found 
•^Sweetest love ! F 11 not forget thee 
If I swear by that eye . . 

Julia's Kiss . . . . • 

To . . . . . 



Fly from the world, O Bessy ! to me . 
Think on that look of humid ray 
A captive thus to thee . . • 

The Catalogue . . . • 
A Fragment « . . 

Where is the nymph . . . 
When time who steals our years away 

The Shrine 

Reuben and Rose .... 

The Ring 

Of all my happiest hours of joy 
To a-4>oy with a watch . . . 
Fragments 'of College exercises . . 
Mary, I believed thee true . . 
Why does azure deck the sky . 
Morality, a familiar epistle . . 
The Natal Genius, a dream . . 



Page. 

282 

. ib. 

283 

. ib 

ib 
. 284 

ib, 

ib 

ib 

. ib. 

285 

. ib 

286 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
. 287 

ib. 
. ib 

ib 
. 288 

ib. 
. ib. 

ib. 



289 

ib. 
292 

ib. 

ib. 
293 

ib. 

ib. 
294 



THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 

Preface, etc ' . 295 

Notes .... ... 311 

IRISH MELODIES.— No. I. 

Advertisement to the First and Second Num- 
bers 

Go where glory waits thee 
Remember the glories of Brien the brave 
Erin ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes 
Oh ! breathe not his name 
\When he who adores thee 
The harp that once through Tara's halls . 
Fly not yet, 't is just the hour . 
Oh! think not my spirits are always as light 
Though the last glimpse of Erin 
Rich and rare were the gems she wore . 
As a beam o'er the face of the waters 
There is not in this wide world . . 



No. II. 

Oh! haste and leave this sacred isle . 
How dear to me the hour when daylight dies 
Take back the virgin page 
When in death I shall calm recline . . 
How oft has the Benshee cried . # 
We may roam through this world , . 
Oh ! weep for the hour .... 
Let Erin remember the days of old . . 
Silent, oh Moyle ! be the roar of thy water 
Come, send round the wine . . 



316 
ib. 

317 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
318 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
319 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
320 

ib. 

ib. 
321 

ib 

ib. 

ib 



i CONTENTS 


age 


Page. 


i 


Sublime was the warning which Liberty 


The time I 've lost in wooing 


33S 


spoke 322 


Where is the slave, so lowly . 


ib. 


Believe me, if all those endearing young 


Come, rest in this bosom, 


ib. 


charms ... . ib. 


'T is gone, and for ever, the light we saw 




No m. 


breaking 


339 


Letter to the Marchioness Dowager of Do- 


I saw from the beach . . . 


ib. 


negal ib. 


Fill the bumper fair ! . ... 


ib 


Like the bright lamp that shone . • . 325 


Dear harp of my country ♦ . 


ib. 


Drink to her, who long . . . ib. 


No. VII. 






Advertisement 


340 


While gazing on the moon's light . ib. 


My gentle harp ! once more I waken 


ib 


When daylight was yet sleeping under the 


As slow our ship her foamy track 


ib. 


billow ib. 


In the morning of life, when its cares are 




By the hope, within us springing . . 327 


unknown . 


34 


Night closed around the conqueror's way ib. 


When cold in the earth lies the friend 


ib 


Oh ! t' is sweet to think, that, where'er we 


Remember thee ! yes, while there 's life in 




roam ib. 


this heart . ... 


% 


Through grief and through danger . . 328 


Wreath the bowl ..... 


d 


When through life unbless'd we rove . ib. 


Whene'er I see those smiling eyes . 


342 


, It is not the tear at this moment shed . . ib. 


If thou 'It be mine, the treasures of air 


ib. 


'T is believed that this harp, which I wake 


To ladies' eyes a round, boy . 


ib. 


now ....... ib. 


Forget not the field where they perish'd 


ib 


No. IV. 


They may rail at this life — from the hour I 




Advertisement 329 


began it 


343 


Oh ! the days are gone, when beauty bright ib. 


Oh for the swords of former time . • 


ib, 


Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we '11 


No. VIII. 




forget them ib. 


Ne'er ask the hour — what is it to us 


ib. 


Weep on, weep on, your hour is past . . 330 


Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark . 


ib. 


Lesbia hath a beaming eye . ib. 


Yes, sad one of Sion — if closely resembling 


344 


I saw thy form in youthful prime . . ib. 


Drink of this cup — you '11 find there 's a spell 


ib. 


By that lake, whose gloomy shore . . 331 


Down in the valley come meet me to-nignt 


ib 


She is far from the land where her young 


Oh, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know 345 


hero sleeps ib. 


Of all the fair months that round the sun 


ib 


Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns ib. 


How sweet the answer Echo makes . 


ib 


Avenging and bright fell the swift sword of 


Oh, banquet not in those shining bowers 


ib. 


Erin .... . . ib. 


The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking 


346 


What the bee is to the floweret . . . 332 


Shall the harp then be silent 


ib. 


Here we dwell, in holiest bowers . . ib. 


Oh, the sight entrancing ... 


ib. 


This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and 


No. IX. 






Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well • 


347 


No. V. 


'T was one of those dreams . . . 


ib. 


Advertisement . . . . . 333 


Fairest ! put on awhile .... 


ib. 


Through Erin's isle ib. 


Quick ! we have but a second . . 


348 


At the 'mid hour of night, when stars are 


And doth not a meeting like this 


ib. 


weeping ...... ib. 


In yonder valley there dwelt, alone . 


349 


/ One bumper at parting ! — though many . 334 
Y 'T is the last rose of summer . . . ib. 


As vanquished Erin wept beside . 


ib. 


By the Feal's wave benighted 


ib. 


The young May-moon is beaming, love . ib. 


They know not my heart . . 


il. 


The minstrel-boy to the war is gone . ib. 


I wish I was by that dim lake . 


350 




She sung of love, — while o'er her lyre 


ib. 


Oh ! had we some bright little isle . . 335 


Sing, sing, music was given . . 


ib. 


Farewell ! — but whenever you welcome the 


NATIONAL AIRS.— No. I. 




hour ib. 


Advertisement 


351 


Oh ! doubt me not — the season . . ib. 


A temple to Friendship. — Spanish Air 


& 


You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride 336 


Flow on, thou shining river. — Portuguese 




I 'd mourn the hopes that leave me . . ib. 


Air 


ib. 


N T o. VI. 


All that 's bright must fade. — Indian Air . 


ib. 


Advertisement ib. 


So warmly we met. — Hungarian Air 


ib 


Come o'er the sea ib. 


Those evening bells. — Air, The Bells of St. 




Has sorrow thy young days shaded . 337 


Petersburgh 


353 


No, not more welcome the fairy numbers ib. 


Should those fond hopes. — Portuguese Air 


ib 


When first I met thee, warm and young . ib. 


Reason, Folly, and Beauty. — Italian An 


ib 


While History's muse the memorial was 


Fare thee well, thou lovely one ! — Sicilian 




keeping 338 


Air 


10 



CONTENTS. 



vu 



Pag". 

Dost thou remember ? — Portuguese Air . 352 

Oh ! come to me when daylight sets. — Ve- 
netian Air 353 

Oft, in the stilly night. — Scotch Air . ib. 

Hark! the vesper hymn is stealing. — Russian 
Air . ib. 



No. II. 

Love and Hope. — Swiss Air . . . 

There comes a time. — German Air. . . 

My harp has one unchanging theme. — Swe- 
dish Air 

Oh ! no — not e'en when first we loved. — 
Cashmerian Air ... • 

Peace be around thee ! — Scotch Air . 

Common Sense and Genius. — French Air . 

Then, fare thee well ! — Old English Air 

Gaily sounds the castanet. — Maltese Air. 

Love is a hunter-boy. — Languedocian Air ib. 

Come, chase that starting tear away. — 

French Air ib. 

Joys of youth, how fleeting! — Po-tuguese 

Air ib. 

Hear me but once. — French Air . . 356 



No III. 

When Love was a child. — Swedish Air . 

Say, what shall be our sport to-day? — Sici- 
lian Air ... . • 

Bright be thy dreams ! — Welsh Air . . 

Go, then — 't is vain. — Sicilian Air • . 

The crystal hunters. — Swiss Air . . 
— * '- R ow gently here. — Venitian Air 

Oh ! the days of youth. — French Air . 

When first that smile. — Venetian Air . . 

Peace to the slumberers ! — Catalonian Air 

When thou shalt wander. — Sicilian Air 

Who'll buy my love-knots? — Portuguese Air 

See, the dawn from Heaven. — Sung at 
Rome on Christmas Eve . . 



No. IV. 

Nets and cages. — Swedish Air . . 
When through the piazzetta. — Venetian Air 
Go, now, and dream. — Sicilian Air , 
Take hence the bowl. — Neapolitan Air . 
Farewell, Theresa ! — Venetian Air 
How oft, when watching stare. — Savoyard 

Air 

When the first summer bee. — German Air 
Though 't is all but a dream. — French Air 
'T is when the cup is smiling. — Italian Air 
Where shall we bury our shame ? — Neapoli- 
tan Air 

Ne'er talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools. — 

Mahratta Air 

Here sleeps the bard. — Highland Air . . 

SACRED SONGS. No. I. 

Thou art, oh God ! .... 

This world is all a fleeting show . . 
Fallen is thy throne .... 

Who is the maid ?..... 

The bird, let loose 

Oh ! Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear 

Weep not for those 

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine . 



353 

ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
359 
ib. 

ib. 
ib. 
ib. 



360 

ib. 
ib. 

36 li 
ib. 

ib. 
362 

a, 

ib. 
ib. 

363 



Sound the loud timbrel • 
Go, let me weep . . 
Come not, oh Lord ! . . 
Were not the sinful Mary's tears 
As down in the sunless retreats . 
But who shall see ? 
Almighty God ! — Chorus of priests 
Oh, fair ! oh, purest . 

No. II. 

Angel of Charity ... 

Behold the sun 

Lord, who shall bear that day? . 

Oh ! teach me to love thee 

Weep, children of Israel . 

Like morning, when her early breeze 

Come, ye disconsolate . . 

Awake, arise, thy light is come 

There is a bleak desert 

Since first thy word . 

Hark ! 't is the breeze . 

Where is your dwelling, ye sainted ? 

How lightly mounts the muse's wing 

Go forth to the mount 

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter 1 

War against Babylon . . 

BALLADS, SONGS, etc. 

Black and Blue eyes . . 

Cease, oh cease to temf.t! 
Dear Fanny . . . 

Did not . . 

Fanny, dearest ! . 

Fanny was in the grove . . 
From life without freedom 
Here 's the bower . 
Holy be the pilgrim's sleep 
I can no longer stifle . . 
I saw the moon rise clear . . 
Joys that pass away 
Light sounds the harp 
Little Mary's eye 
Love and the Sun-Dial 
Love and Time . . . 
Love, my Mary, dwells with thee 
Love's light summer-cloud 
Love wand'ring through the golden maze 
• Merrily every bosom boundeth , 
Now let the warrior . . 
Oh, lady fair! .... 
Oh ! remember the time . . 
Oh ! see those cherries . 
Oh ! soon return ... 
Oh, yes ! so well . . 
Oh, yes ! when the bloom 
One dear smile .... 
Poh, Dermot ! go along with your goster 
Send the bowl round merrily 
The Day of Love .... 
The Probability .... 
The Song of War . 
The Tablet of Love . 
The young Rose 

When in languor sleeps the heart 
When 'midst the gay I meet . 
When twilight dews . 



Page. 
. 363 

ib. 

. 364 
ib. 

. ib. 
ib 

. ib. 
365 



. ib. 

ib. 

. ib. 

366 
. & 

ib. 
. ib. 

ib 
, 367 

ib. 

i ib. 

353 

, ib. 

ib. 

, ib. 

369 

, 370 
ib. 

. ib 

ib. 

ib. 

371 

, ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

372 

ib. 

ib 

ib. 

ib 

373 

ib 

ib. 

ib. 

ib 

374 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib, 

ib, 

375 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

376 

lb. 

ib 

ib. 

ib 

377 

ib 

ib 

ib 



CONTENTS. 



Will you come to the bower . • 
Young Jessica ...... 

The Rabbinical Origin of Women . 

Farewell, Bessy 

To-day, dearest ! is ours ... 

When on the lip the sigh delays • . 

Here, take my heart • • 

Oh ! call it by some better name • . 

Poor wounded heart . • • • 
The East Indian ♦ • . • 

Pale broken flower • • • • 

The pretty rose-tree • • . . . 
Shine out, stars ..... 
The young muleteers of Grenada . . 
Tell her ! oh tell her ... 
Nights of Music . ... 

Our first young love . • • 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

A Melologue upon national music . 
Lines on the death of Mr. P-rc-v-1 . 
Lines on the death of Sh-r-d-n . . . 
Lines written on hearing that the Austrians 
had entered Naples .... 
The Insurrection of the Papers • . 
Parody of a celebrated Letter . • . 
Anacreontic. — To a Plumassier . . 
Extracts from the Diary of a Politician 
lung Crack and his Idols . . , 

Wreaths for the Ministers .... 
The new Costume of the Ministers . 

Occasional Address 

The sale of the Tools .... 
Little Man and little Soul .... 
Reinforcements for Lord Wellington . 
Iiord Wellington and the Ministers . . 
T^m and Hum, the two birds of royalty 
Epistle from Tom Crib to Big Ben . 
To Lady Holland, on Napoleon's legacy of 

a snuff-box 

Correspondence between a lady and gentle- 
man .... . 
Horace, ode XL lib. II . - . 

, ode XXII. lib. I. 

, ode I. lib. Ill 

, ode XXXVIII. lib. I. . . . 

To . Die when you wdl . . 

Impromptu. — Between Adam and me 
What is my thought like? . . . 
Epigram. What news to-day? . . • 

Said his Highness to Ned • 

— . I want the court-guide . 



Paffe. 

377 
. ib. 

378 



ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
379 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
300 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

33 1 

3S2 

ib. 

333 

ib. 

384 

33.3 
ib. 

ib. 
ib. 

3S7 

ib. 
3S3 

ib. 
339 

ib. 

ib. 
390 

ib. 

ib. 

391 

ib. 

392 
ib. 

ib. 

3D3 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 



• I never give a kiss . 

On a squinting poetess ... 
The torch of Liberty 

Epilogue 394 

To the memory of J. Atkinson, Esq. . ib. 

Epitaph on a well-known poet . ib. 

The Sylph's ball 395 

Alciphron 



Page. 
Remonstrance to Lord J. Russell . . 396 
Epitaph on a lawyer . . ib. 

My birth-day . . . . • . . ib 
Fancy — the more I 've view'd this world 390 

Love had a fever ib 

Translation from Catullus ... ib 

To my mother; written in a pocket-book ib. 
Illustration of a bore ib 

A Speculation fib. 

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed . ib 
Of all the men one meets about . . 39S 

Romance ib. 

A Joke versified ib. 

On Like a snuffers, this loving 

old dame . . . . , ib. 

Factotum Ned ib. 

Country-dance and Quadrille . . . 399 
To those we love we 've drank to-night 400 
Genius and Criticism . . <> 401 



ATTRIBUTED PIECES. 

An amatory colloquy between Bank and 
Government . . . . . 

Ode to the Goddess Ceres .^ . . 

Said a Sovereign to a Note . • . 

An Expostulation to Lord King . . 

Moral positions 

Memorabilia of last week . . . 

A hymn of welcome after the Recess 

All in the family way .... 

Canonization of St. B-tt-rw-rth . . 

New Creation of peers . . . 
• Cambridge university 

Lines written in St. Stephen's chapel, after 
the Dissolution .... 

Copy of an intercepted Despatch • 

Mr. Roger Dodsworth .... 

The Millennium ...... 

The three Doctors .... 

Epitaph on a tuft-hunter . 

The petition of the Orangemen of Ireland 

A Vision, by the Author of Christabel 

News for country cousins . . . 

An Incantation, sung by the bubble spirit 

A dream of turtle, by Sir W. Curtis . 

A voice from Marathon 

Cotton and Corn ..... 

The Donkey and his panniers . 

Ode to the Sublime Porte 

Reflections suggested by a late correspond- 
ence on the Catholic question . 

The Ghost of Miltiades 

Corn and Catholics .... 

Crockfordiana ...... 

The two Bondsmen .... 

The Periwinkles and the Locusts . 

A case of libel .... 

Literary advertisement 

The Slave 
420 



402 

ib. 
403 

ib. 
404 

ib. 
405 

ib. 
406 
407 

ib. 

408 

ib. 
409 

ib. 
410 

ib. 

ib. 
411 
412 

ib. 
413 

ib. 
414 

ib. 
415 

to. 

416 

ib. 

ib. 
417 

ib. 
418 

ib 



A. BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCH 



OF 



THOMAS MOOME, E^Q. 

C-OMPRISING ANECDOTES OF ANCIENT MINSTRELSY, ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE 
"IRISH MELODIES." 



BY J. W. LAKE. 



Notwithstanding the number of literary men to 
whom Ireland has given birth, there is very little 
connected with their names which conveys to us any 
thing of a national association ; for the land 'of their 
nativity scarcely enjoys a single ray of that brilliant 
mind, which sheis its intellectual brightness over the 
sister country. Congreve was an apostate, and Swift 
only by accident a patriot; whilst Goldsmith was 
weak enough to afhet an air of contempt for a peo- 
ple whose accent was indelibly stamped on his tongue. 
We could protract the list of her ungrateful and 
thoughtless "men of mind" even to our own day; 
but the task would be invidious, and we gladly turn 
from it to one who forms a splendid exception — one 
who is not ashamed of Ireland, and of whom Ireland 
is justly proud. — 

Land of the Muse ! i» glory's lay, 

In history's leaf thy same shall soar 
When, like a meteor's »oxious ray, 

The reign <JJ' tyranny K o'er; 
Immortal names have hofour'd thee — 

A Sheridar, a Wellesley; 
And still is beaming round ftiy shore 

The spirit bright of Liberty, 
For thou canst boast a patriot, Mooret 

Mr. Moore is every way an Irishman, in heart, in 
feelings, and in principles. For his country he has 
done more than any man living : he has associated 
her name, her wrongs, and her attributes, with poetry 
and music, neither of which can ever die, while taste, 
patriotism, and literature subsists in the world ; and 
whilst these survive, Ireland will form the theme of 
Beauty's song, and Irish music the charm of every 
cultivated mind. But, all extrinsic circumstances 
apart, there is in the melodies of Mr. Moore a sacred 
fire, which conveys its vividness to the soul of his 
readers ; and they must be made of sterner stuff than 
the ordinary race of men, if their bosoms do not glow 
with liberal and patriotic enthusiasm, while they pe- 
ruse the harmonious creations of a poet who has 
clothed the wild and eccentric airs of his country in 



words that burn, and sentiments that find an echo in 
every generous breast. 

Had Mr. Moore done no more than this, he would 
be entitled to the gratitude of his countrymen ; but 
his genius, like his own Peri, seems never pleased, 
but while hovering over the region he loves ; or if it 
makes a short excursion, it is only in the hope of 
securing some advantage that may accelerate the 
removal of those disqualifications, which are supposed 
to exclude happiness from the limits of his country 
In "Lalla Rookh" he has given his fire-worshippers 
the wrongs and feelings of Irishmen; while, in the 
"Memoirs of Captain Rock," he has accomplished a 
most difficult task — written a history of Ireland that 
has been read. 

On such grounds we may well claim for Mr. Moore 
what he deserves — the crown of patriotism ; but it is 
not on this head alone he is entitled to our praise. 
As a poet, since the lamented death of Byron, he 
stands almost without a competitor ; and as a prose- 
writer, he is highly respectable. 

Mr. Moore is the only son of the late Mr. Garret, 
Moore, formerly a respectable tradesman in Dublin, 
where our poet was born on the 28th of May, 1780. 
He has two sisters ; and his infantine days seem to 
have left the most agreeable impressions on his me- 
mory. In an epistle to his eldest sister, dated Novem- 
ber, 1803, and written from Norfolk in Virginia, he 
retraces with delight their childhood, and describes 
the endearments of home, with a sensibility as exqui- 
site as that which breathes through the lines of Cow- 
per on receiving his mother's picture. 

He acquired the rudiments of an excellent education 
under the care of the late Mr. Samuel Whyte, of 
Grafton-street, Dublin, a gentleman extensively known 
and respected as the early tutor of Sheridan. Ho 
evinced such talent in early fife, as determined his 
father to give him the advantages of a superior edu- 
cation, and at the early age of fourteen, he was entered 
a student of Trinity College, Dublin. 

Mr. Moore was greatly distinguished while at the 
University, by an enthusiastic attachment to the libert? 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



and independence of his country, which he more than 
once publicly asserted with uncommon energy and 
eloquence ; and he was equally admired for the splen- 
dour of his classical attainments, and the sociability 
of his disposition. On the 19th November, 1799, Mr. 
Moore entered himself a member of the honourable 
Society of the Middle Temple, and in the course of 
the year 1800, before he had completed the 20th year 
of his age, he published his translation of the " Odes 
of Anacreon" into English verse with notes, from 
whence, in the vocabulary of fashion, he has ever 
since been designated by the appellation of Anacreon 
Moore. So early as his twelfth year he appears to 
have meditated on executing this performance, which, 
if not a close version, must be ^confessed to be a fas- 
cinating one, of this favourite bard. The work is 
introduced by a Greek ode from the pen of the Trans- 
lator, and is dedicated, with permission, to his Royal 
Highness the Prince of Wales, now George the 
Fourth. When Mr. Moore first came to London, his 
youthful appearance was such, that being at a large 
dinner-party, and getting up to escort the ladies to the 
drawing room, a French gentleman observed, " Ah! le 
petit bon homme qui s'en va!" Mr. Moore's subse- 
quent brilliant conversation, however, soon proved 
him to be, though little of stature, yet, like Gay, " in 
wit a man." Assuming the appropriate name of 
Little, our author published, in 1801, a volume of 
original poems, chiefly amatory. Of the contents of 
this volume it is impossible to speak in terms of un- 
qualified commendation. Several of the poems ex- 
hibit strong marks of genius: they were the productions 
of an age, when the passions very often give a colour- 
ing too warm to the imagination, which may in some 
degree palliate, if it cannot excuse, that air of lubricity 
which pervades too many of them. In the same 
year, his " Philosophy of Pleasure" was advertised, 
but was never published. 

Mr. Moore's diffidence of his poetical talents in- 
duced him to adopt, and with reluctance to reject, as 
a motto for his work, the quotation from Horace, 

Primum ego me illorum, quibus dederim esse poetis, 
Excerpam numero; neque enim concludere versus 
Dixeris esse satis — 

and at a later period, when his reputation was fully 
established, he spoke of himself with his wonted mo- 
desty. " Whatever fame he might have acquired, he 
attributed principally to the verses which he had 
adapted to the delicious strains of Irish melody. His 
verses, in themselves, could boast of but little merit ; 
but, like flies preserved in amber, they were esteemed 
in consequence of the precious material by which 
they were surrounded." 

Mr. Sheridan, in speaking of the subject of this 
memoir, said, " That there was no man who put so 
much of his heart into his fancy as Tom Moore : that 
his soul seemed as if it were a particle of fire sepa- 
rated from the sun, and was always fluttering to get 
fibck to that source of light and heat." 
j wlTowaids the autumn of 1803, Mr. Moore embarked 
lor Bermuda ;* where he had obtained the appoint- 



*The scene of Shakspeare's inimitable tragedy of "The 
Tempest," is said to have been laid in the island of Ber- 
muda. 



ment of Registrar to the Admiralty. This was a 
patent place, and of a description so unsuitable to hi* 
temper of mind, that he soon found it expedient to 
fulfil the duties of it by a deputy, with whom, in con 
sideration of circumstances, he consented to dividf 
the profits accruing from it. From this situation 
however, he never derived any emolument ; thougi, 
a few years since, he suffered some pecuniary inccn- 
venience, owing to the misconduct of his deaity. 
Alluding to his trip across the Atlantic, in a work 
published soon after his return to Europe, he siys : 
" Though curiosity, therefore, was certainly no: the 
motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened 
that the gratification of curiosity was the only idvan- 
tage which I derived from it. Having remainec about 
a week at New York," he continues, " where I saw 
Madame, the half repudiated wife of Jerome Buona- 
parte, and felt a slight shock of an earthquake, the 
only things that particularly awakened my lttention, 
I sailed again for Norfolk, where I proceeded on my 
tour northward through Williamsburg, Rchmond," 
etc. In October, 1804, he quitted America on his 
return to England, in the Boston frigate, commanded 
by Capt. Douglas, whom he has highly eulogized for 
his attention during the voyage. In 1806, he pub- 
lished his remarks on the Manners and Society of 
America, in a work entitled Odes and Epistles. The 
preface to this little work sufficiently evinced the 
talent of Mr. Moore as a writer of rrose. 

The fate of Addison with his Countess Dowager 
holding out no encouragement for:he ambitious love 
of Mr. Moore, he wisely and hippily allowed his 
good taste to regulate his choice in a wife, and some 
years ago married Miss Dyke, a Jady of great personal 
beauty, most amiable disposition, and accomplished 
manners, in whose society he passes much of his 
time in retirement at his cottage near Devizes, diver- 
sified by occasional visits to London. To complete 
this picture of domestic happiness, he is the father of 
several lovely children, or whose education he be- 
stows the most judicious and attentive care. 

Mr. Moore appears equally to have cultivated a 
taste for music as well ?s for poesy, and the late cele- 
brated Dr. Burney wis perfectly astonished at his 
talent, which he empiaticaLly called " peculiarly his 
own." Nor has he neglected those more solid 
attainments which should ever distinguish the well- 
bred gentleman, fcr he is an excellent general scholar, 
and particularly well read in the literature of the 
middle ages. His conversational powers are great, 
and his modest and unassuming manners have placed 
him in the highest rank of cultivated society. 

The celebrated poem of Lalla Rookh appeared in 
1817 ; in the summer of which year our poet visited 
the French capital, where he collected the materials 
for that humorous production, " The Fudge Family 
in Paris." In the following year, he went to Ireland, 
on which occasion a dinner was given to him, on the 
8th of June, 1818, at Morrison's Hotel in Dublin, 
which was graced by a large assemblage of the most 
distinguished literary and political characters. The 
Earl of Charlemont took the head of the table , Mr. 
Moore sat on his right hand, and Mr. Moore, sen 
(since dead,) a venerable old gentleman, the father of 
our bard, was on his left. As soon as the cloth was 
removed, Non nobis, Domine, was sung by the 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



vocalists present ; numerous loyal and patriotic toasts 
followed. The Earl of Charlemont then proposed 
the memory of the late lamented Princess Charlotte, 
which was drank in solemn silence ; after which a 
pweet and plaintive song was sung, in commemora- 
tion of her late Royal Highness. After a short inter- 
val, the Earl of Charlemont again rose, and, with a 
suitable eulogium, proposed the health of the distin- 
guished Irishman who had honoured the country with 
his presence. When the applause had subsided, Mr. 
Moore rose, much affected, and spoke to the follow- 
ing effect : — 

" I feel this the very proudest moment of my whole 
life ; to receive such a tribute from an assembly like 
this around me, composed of some of the warmest 
and manliest hearts that Ireland can boast, is indeed 
a triumph that goes to my very heart, and awakens 
there all that an Irishman ought to feel, whom Irish- 
men like you have selected for such a distinction. — 
Were my merits a hundred times beyond what the 
partiality of the noble chairman has inyested me with, 
this moment, this golden moment of my life, would 
far exceed them all. There are some among you, 
gentlemen, whose friendship has been the strength 
and ornament, the * dulce decus' of my existence ; 
who, however they differ from my public sentiments, 
have never allowed that transient ruffle on the surface 
to impede the progress of the deep tide of friendship 
beneath; men who feel, that there is something more 
sacred than party, and whose noble natures, in the 
worst of times, would come out of the conflict of 
public opinion, like pebbles out of the ocean, but more 
smooth and more polished from its asperities by the 
very agitation in which they had been revolving. To 
see them beside me on a day like this, is pleasure that 
lies too deep for words. To the majority of you, 
gentlemen, I am unknown ; but as your countryman, 
as one who has ventured to touch the chords of Ire- 
land's Harp, and whose best fame is made out of the 
echoes of their sweetness ; as one whose humble 
talents have been ever devoted, and, with the blessing 
of God, ever shall be devoted to the honour and ad- 
vancement of his country's name ; whose love for 
that country, even they, who condemn his manner of 
showing it, will at least allow to be sincere, and per- 
haps forgive its intemperance for its truth — setting 
him down as ' one who loved, not wisely, but too 
well :' — to most of you, gentlemen, I say, I am but 
thus known. We have hitherto been strangers to 
each other ; but may I not flatter myself that from this 
night a new era of communion begins between us ? 
The giving and receiving of a tribute like this is the 
very hot-bed of the heart, forcing at once all its feel- 
ing into a fulness of fruit, which it would take years 
of ordinary ripening to produce ; and there is not a 
man of you who has pledged the cup of fellowship 
this night, of whom I would not claim the privilege 
of grasping by the hand, with all the cordiality of a 
long and well-cemented friendship. I could not say 
morv, if I were to speak for ages. With a heart full 
as this glass, I thank you for your kindness to me, 
and have the sincere gratification of drinking all your 
healths." 

Lord Allen gave " the memory of Mr. Curran ;" on 
which a very modest, pathetic, and eloquent speech 
was delivered by his son, in a tone and manner 



that produced the most lively emotion throughout the 
room. 

A gentleman afterwards sang a lively and well- 
written song, composed for the occasion. The sub- 
ject was the poets' Election in Olympus, at which 
there were several candidates, such as Byron, Scott, 
Southey, etc. ; but which ended in a due return of . 
Moore, who had a great majority of votes. This jeu 
oV esprit produced much merriment, and the health of 
the author was drank with applause. 

Lord Charlemont then gave ' the living Poets of 
Great Britain ;' on which Mr. Moore said : — 

" Gentlemen, notwithstanding the witty song which 
you have just heard, and the flattering elevation which 
the author has assigned me, I cannot allow such a 
mark of respecc to be paid to the illustrious names 
that adorn the literature of the present day, without 
calling your attention awhile to the singular constel- 
lation of genius, and asking you to dwell a little on 
the brightness of each particular star that forms it. 
Can I name to you a Byron, without recalling to your 
hearts recollections of all that his mighty genius has 
awakened there ; his energy, his burning words, his 
intense passion, that disposition of fine fancy to wan- 
der only among the ruins of the heart, to dwell in 
places which the fire of feeling has desolated, and, 
like the chesnut-tree, that grows best in volcanic 
soils, to luxuriate most where the conflagration of 
passion has left its mark ? Need I mention to you a 
Scott, that fertile and fascinating writer, the vegeta- 
tion of whose mind is as rapid as that of a northern 
summer, and as rich as the most golden harvest of 
the south; whose beautiful creations succeed each 
other like fruits in Armida's enchanted garden — * one 
scarce is gathered ere another grows !' Shall I recall 
to you a Rogers (to me endeared by friendship as 
well as genius,) who has hung up his own name on 
the shrine of memory among the most imperishable 
tablets there ? A Southey, not the Laureate, but the 
author of " Don Roderick," one of the noblest and 
most eloquent poems in any language ? A Campbell, 
the polished and spirited Campbell, whose song of 
" Innisfal" is the very tears of our own Irish muse* 
crystalized by the touch of genius, and made eternal? 
A Wordsworth, a poet, even in his puerilities, whose 
capacious mind, like the great pool of Norway, draws 
into its vortex not only the mighty things of the deep, 
but its minute weeds and refuse ? A Crabbe, who 
has shown what the more than galvanic power of 
talent can effect, by giving not only motion, but life 
and soul to subjects that seemed incapable of it ? I 
could enumerate, gentlemen, still more, and from 
thence would pass with delight to dwell upon the 
living poets of our own land ; — the dramatic powers 
of a Maturin and a Sheil, the former consecrated by 
the applause of a Scott and a Byron, and the latter 
by the tears of some of the brightest eyes in the em- 
pire; the rich imagination of a Phillips, who hag 
courted successfully more than one muse — the versa- 
tile genius of a Morgan, who was the first that mated 
our sweet Irish strains with poetry worthy of their 
pathos and their force. But I feel I have already 
trespassed too long upon your patience and your 
time. I do not regret, however, that you have deigned 
to listen with patience to this humble tribute to the 
living masters of the English lyre, which I, *tho 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



meanest of the throng,' thus feebly, but heartily, have 
paid them." 

In 1822, our author made a second visit to Paris, 
where he resided for a considerable time with his 
amiable wife and family. The fame of his genius, his 
social yet unpretending manners, and his musical 
talents and conversation, acquired him much esteem 
with the most eminent literary and literary-loving 
characters of the French capital. During his stay in 
that city, at the request of Messrs. Galignani, he sat 
for his portrait, which was most ably executed by F. 
Sieurac, and is allowed by all who have seen Mr. 
Moore to be a masterly likeness. An excellent en- 
graving from it, is prefixed to the present edition of his 
works. The writer of this sketch may perhaps be ex- 
cused for introducing here an impromptu he wrote, in 
the blank leaf of a book belonging to a little girl, the 
daughter of Mr. Moore, at his house in the Champs 
Elysees, Paris : — 

JSweet child ! when on thy beauteous face, 
/The blush of innocence I view, 

Thy gentle mother's features trace, 

Thy father's eye of genius too, 

If envy wakes a transient sigh, % 

That face is my apology. 

Previous to Mr. Moore leaving Paris, the British 
nobility and gentry resident in that capital gave him a 
most splendid dinner at Roberts's. About 60 persons 
were present ; Lord Trimblestown was in the chair, 
supported on his right by Mr. Moore, and on his left 
by the Earl of Granard. The vice-presidents were 
Sir Godfrey Webster, Sir John Byerley, and the 
Reverend Archibald Douglas, who superintended the 
preparations for the banquet, which consisted of 
every luxury the gastronomic art could produce. Mr. 
Moore was in high health and spirits ; songs, catches, 
and glees, blended delightfully with the sparkling 
Champagne. Several speeches were made by Lord 
Trimblestown, Messrs. Byerley, Kenney, Grattan, 
etc. ; and Mr. Moore introduced the toast of " Pros- 
perity to Old England" in the following eloquent 
language : — 

" As the noble chairman has, in compliment to the 
land of my birth, given the ever-welcome toast of 
'Prosperity to Ireland,' I beg leave to suggest a 
similar tribute to that other country to which we all 
belong, and to whose real greatness and solid glory — 
all Irishman as 1 am, and with my political and his- 
torical recollections fresh about me — I am most ready 
to bear testimony and homage before the world. 
Yes, gentlemen, there may be, and there are (for God 
forbid that I should circumscribe virtue within any 
particular latitude,) there may be, and there are high 
minds, warm hearts, and brave arms every where. 
But for that genuine high-mindedness, which has 
honesty for its basis — the only sure foundation upon 
which any thing lofty was ever built — which can dis- 
tinguish between real, substantial greatness, and that 
false, inflated glory of the moment, whose elevation, 
like that of the balloon, is owing to its emptiness, or 
if not to its emptiness, at least to the levity of its 
freight — for that good faith, that punctuality in en- 
gagements, which is the soul of all commercial as 
well as all moral relations, and which, while it gives 
to business the confidence and good understanding 
»f friendship, introduces into friendship the regularity 



and matter-of-fact steadiness of business — for that 
spirit of fairness and liberality among public men, 
which extracts the virus of personality out of partj 
zeal, and exhibits so often (too often, I amsprry to say, 
of late) the touching spectacle of the most sturdy po- 
litical chieftains pouring out at the grave of their most 
violent antagonists such tributes, not alone of justice, 
but of cordial eulogy, as show how free from all pri- 
vate rancour was the hostility that separated them— 
and lastly (as I trust I may say, not only without 
infringing, but in strict accordance with, that Avise 
tact which excludes party politics from a meeting like 
the present,) for that true and well-understood love 
of liberty, which, through all changes of chance and 
time, has kept the old vessel of the Constitution sea- 
worthy — which, in spite of storms from without, and 
momentary dissensions between the crew within, 
still enables her to ride, the admiration of the world, 
and will, I trust in God, never suffer her to founder— 
for all these qualities, and many, many more that 
could be enumerated, equally lofty and equally valua- 
ble, the most widely-travelled Englishman may 
proudly say, as he sets his foot once more upon the 
chalky cliffs, — ' This is my own, my native land, and 
I have seen nothing that can, in the remotest degree, 
compare with it.' — Gentlemen, I could not help, — in 
that fulness of heart, which they alone can feel to- 
wards England who have been doomed to live for 
some time out of it — paying this feeble tribute to that 
most noble country ; nor can I doubt the cordiality 
with which you will drink — ' Prosperity, a long pros- 
perity to Old England.' " 

This speech was hailed with the warmest acclama- 
tions, and the utmost hilarity prevailed till " morning 
grey began to peep." Never did more gaiety, good 
humour, and cordiality grace a poet's festival, than at 
this farewell dinner to Tom Moore. 

To the above specimens of our author's oratorical 
powers, we subjoin here two other speeches, of more 
recent date, which he delivered on occasions which 
called forth all the glow of his heart, and sympathy 
of his nature. 

On the 6th of last May, the anniversary meeting 
of the patrons and friends of the "Artists' Benevo- 
lent Fund" was held at the Freemasons' Tavern, the 
Right Hon. Frederick Robinson, Chancellor of the 
Exchequer, in the chair. In the course of the even- 
ing, Mr. Shee, R. A., proposed as a toast " The health 
of Thomas Moore, and Thomas Campbell," which 
was drunk with enthusiastic applause. Immediately 
after this Mr. Moore rose, and returned thanks aa 
follows : — 

" I assure the meeting that I feel very sensibly and 
very strongly the high honour which has been con- 
ferred on me, nor do I feel it the less sensibly, from 
the kind and warm-hearted manner in which the toast 
hast been proposed by my excellent friend and fellow- 
countryman. To have my name coupled with tha* 
of Mr. Campbell, I feel to be no ordinary distinction. 
If a critical knowledge of the arts were necessary foi 
a just admiration of them, I must at once admit, much 
as I delight in them, that I cannot boast of that know 
ledge. I am one of those uninitiated worshippers 
who admire very sincerely, though perhaps I could 
not, like the initiated, give a perfectly satisfactory 
reason for my admiration. I enjoy the aits, as a man 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE 



xi »i 



unacquainted with astronomy enjoys the beauty of 
sunset, or the brilliant wonders of a starry night. 
Amongst the many objects of commiseration with 
which the world unfortunately abounds, there is not 
one that appeals more intensely to the feelings than 
the family which a man of genius leaves behind him, 
desolate and forsaken ; their only distinction the re- 
flected light of a name which renders their present 
misery more conspicuous, and the contemplation of 
which must add poignancy to their sufferings. There 
is no object under heaven more sure to be visited 
with the blessings of success than that which has in 
view the alleviation of such misery. I am happy to 
find that the Government, of which the Right Ho- 
nourable Chairman forms a part, has taken the fine 
ids under their protection. It is for them a proud 
and honourable distinction, that, while they show 
they possess the talents of statesmen, they also prove 
they have the liberal feelings which belong to men 
of taste." 

This speech was received with repeated cheering, 
and the eloquent speaker sat down amidst the loudest 
applause. 

At the 37th Anniversary of the " Literary Fund 
Society," Sir John Malcolm introduced the health of 
our poet in the following manner : — 

" It is another remarkable feature of this Institution, 
that its applause may be valuable to genius, when its 
money is not wanted. I allude to one now present 
amongst us, whom I have not the honour of knowing 
personally, but whose fame is well known all over 
Jie world. I now claim the liberty to pay my tribute 
of admiration to the individual in question ; for, al- 
though I have spent a great part of my life in distant 
climes, his fame has reached me ; and the merit of 
one of his works I am myself well able to appreciate 
—I mean Lalla Rookh — in which the author has 
combined the truth of the historian with the genius 
of the poet, and the vigorous classical taste of his 
own country with the fervid imagination of the East. 
I propose the health of Mr. Thomas Moore." 

The health was then received with all the honours ; 
jpon which Mr. Moore rose and said : — 

"I feel highly flattered by the compliment now 
paid me, although there are others who might more 
justly have laid claim to it — I allude to the translator 
cf Oberon (Mr. Sotheby,) whose genius instructed, 
enlightened, and delighted the world, long ere a lay 
of mine appeared before the public. I cannot, how- 
ever, but feel myself highly honoured by the manner in 
which my health has been received in such an assem- 
bly as the present. The soldier is delighted with the 
applause of his companions in arms ; the sailor loves 
to hear the praises of those who have encountered the 
perils of the deep and of naval warfare ; so I cannot 
help feeling somewhat like a similar pleasure from 
the approbation of those who have laboured with me 
in the same field. This is the highest honour which 
hey can offer, or I can receive. As to the Honoura- 
ele Baronet who has proposed my health in so filt- 
ering a manner, I feel that much of what he has said 
may arise from the influence of the sparkling glass 
which has been circulating among us. (A laugh.) I 
do not by any means say that we have yet reached 
die state of double vision (a laugh,) but it is well 
luown that objects seen through a glass appear mag- 



nified and of a higher elevation. There is an anec- 
dote in the history of literature not unconnected with 
this topic. When the art of printing was first intro- 
duced, the types with which the first works were 
printed were taken down and converted into drinking- 
cups, to celebrate the glory of the invention. — To be 
sure, there have been other literary glasses not quite 
so poetical; for it has been said, that as the warriors 
of the North drank their mead in the hall of Odin dlU 
of the skulls of those whom they had slain in battle — 
so booksellers drank their wine out of the skulls of 
authors. (Laughter and applause.) But different 
times have now arrived ; for authors have got their 
share of the aurum potabile, and booksellers have got 
rather the worst of it. There is one peculiarity at- 
tendant upon genius, which is well worth mentioning, 
with reference to the great objects of this admirable 
Institution. Men of genius, like the precious per- 
fumes of the East, are exceedingly liable to exhaus- 
tion, and the period often comes when nothing of it 
remains but its sensibility ; and the light, which long 
gave life to the world, sometimes terminates in be- 
coming a burden to itself. (Great applause.) When 
we add to that the image of Poverty — when we con- 
sider the situation of that man of genius, who, in his 
declining years and exhausted resources, sees nothing 
before him but indigence — it is then only that we can 
estimate the value of this Institution, which stretches 
out its friendly hand to save him from the dire ca- 
lamity. (Applause.) This is a consideration which 
ought to have its due effect upon the minds of the 
easy and opulent, who may themselves be men of 
genius ; but there may be others who have no property 
to bestow upon them ; and the person who now ad- 
dresses you speaks the more feelingly, because he 
cannot be sure that the fate of genius, which he has 
just been depicting, may not one day be his own." 
(Immense applause.) 

In 1823, Mr. Moore published " The Loves of the 
Angels," of which two French translations soon after 
appeared in Paris. While Mr. Moore was compos- 
ing this poem, Lord Byron, who then resided in 
Italy, was, by a singular coincidence, writing a similai 
poem, with the title of" Heaven and Earth," both of 
them having taken the subject from the second verse 
of the 6th chapter of Genesis : "And it came to pass, 
that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that 
they were fair; and they took them wives of all 
which they chose." 

The two poets presumed that the Sons of God were 
angels, which opinion is also entertained by some of 
the fathers of the Church. 

We have already alluded to our author's, " Memoirs 
of Captain Rock," the celebrated " Rinaldo Rinal- 
dini" of Ireland ; or rather the designatfon adopted 
by the " Rob Roys" of that unfortunately divided 
country. Mr. Moore has since increased his reputa- 
tion, as a prose writer, by his publication of the Life 
of the late Right Honourable Richard Brinsiey Sheri- 
dan, which, from the superior sources of information 
at his command, is, in a literary point of view at least, 
a valuable acquisition to the lovers of biography. 

We here annex a list of Mr. Moore's works, with 
their respective dates of publication, as far as we have 
been able to verify them. 

The Odes of Anacreon, translated into English 



SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



verse, with notes ; dedicated by permission to his 
Royal Highness the Prince of Wales (his present 
Majesty.) 4to. 1800. 

A Candid Appeal to Public Confidence, or Con- 
siderations on the Dangers of the Present Crisis. 
8vo. 1803. 

Corruption and Intolerance, two poems. 
Epistles, Odes, and other Poems. 1806. 
Poems, under the assumed name of the late Thomas 
little, Esq. 8vo. 1808. 

A Letter to the Roman Catholics of Dublin. 8vo. 
1810. 

M. P., or the Blue Stocking, a comic opera in three 
acts, performed at the Lyceum. 1811. 

Intercepted Letters, or the Twopenny- Post Bag 
(in verse,) by Thomas Brown the Younger. 8vo. 
1812. — Of this upwards of fourteen editions have ap- 
peared in England. 

A Selection of Irish Melodies, continued to 9 num- 
bers. 

Mr. Moore completed the translation of Sallust, 
which had been left unfinished by Mr. Arthur Mur- 
phy, and he superintended the printing of the work 
for the purchaser, Mr. Carpenter. 
The Sceptic, a philosophical satire. 
Lalla Rookh, an oriental romance, dedicated to 
Samuel Rogers, Esq. 1817. 
The Fudge Family in Paris, letters in verse. 1818. 
National Airs, continued to four numbers. 
Sacred Songs, two numbers. 
Ballads, Songs, etc. 

Tom Crib's Memorial to Congress, in verse. 
Trifles Reprinted, in verse. 
' Loves of the Angels. 1823. 
Rhymes on the Road extracted from the journal 
of a travelling member of the Pococurante Society. 
Miscellaneous Poems, by different members of the 
Pococurante Society. 

Fables for the Holj Alliance, in verse. 
Ballads, Songs, Miscellaneous Poems, etc. 
Memoirs of Captain Rock. 

The Life of the late Right Honourable Richard 
Brinsley Sheridan. 

For Lalla Rookh Mr. Moore received 3,000 guineas 
of Messrs. Longman and Co. For the Life of Sheri- 
dan he was paid 2,000 guineas by the same house. — 
Mr. Moore enjoys an annuity of 500Z. from Power, 
the music-seller, for the Irish Melodies and other 
lyrical pieces. He has, moreover, lately, we under- 
stand, engaged to write for the Times newspaper, at 
a salary of 500Z. per annum. 

It is well known that the Memoirs of the late Lord 
Byron, written by himself, had been deposited in the 
keeping of Mr. Moore, and designed as a legacy for 
his benefit. It is also known that the latter, with the 
consent and at the desire of his lordship, had long ago 
sold the manuscript to Mr. Murray, the bookseller, 
for the sum of two thousand guineas. These me- 
moirs are, however, lost to the world : the leading 
facts relative to which were related in the following 
letter addressed by Mr. Moore to the English jour- 
nals • — 

" Without entering into the r-spective claims of 
Mr. Murray and myself to the property in these me- 
moirs (a question which, now that they are destroyed, 
can be but of little moment to any one,) it is sufficient 



to say that, believing the manuscript still to be mine, 
I placed it at the disposal of Lord Byron's sister, Mrs. 
Leigh, with the sole reservation of a potest against 
its total destruction — at least without previous perusal 
and consultation among the parties. The majority 
of the persons present disagreed with this opinioa 
and it was the only point upon which there did exist 
any difference letween us. The manuscript was, ac- 
cordingly, torn and burnt before our eyes; and 1 
immediately paid to Mr. Murray, in the presence of 
the gentlemen assembled, two thousand guineas, with 
interest, etc., being the amount of what I owed him 
upon the security of my bond, and for which I now 
stand indebted to my publishers, Messrs. Longman 
and Co. 

" Since then the family of Lord Byron have, in a 
manner highly honourable to themselves, proposed 
an arrangement, by which the sum thus paid to Mr. 
Murray might be reimbursed to me ; but, from feelinga 
and considerations which it is unnecessary here to ex- 
plain, I have respectfully, but peremptorily, declined 
their offer." 

Before we proceed to offer a few unprejudiced ob- 
servations on this unpleasant subject, we deem it 
proper to lay before our readers the various opinions, 
pro et contra, to which this letter of Mr. Moore gave 
rise. It is but justice, however, to Mr. Moore's high 
and unblemished reputation to premise, that neither 
by those who regretted the burning of Byron's Me- 
moirs, as a public loss, nor by those who condemned 
it as a dereliction of the most important duty he owed 
to the memory and fame of his noble-minded friend 
— by none of these, nor by any one we ever heard of, 
has Mr. Moore's honour, disinterestedness, or deli- 
cacy — extreme delicacy — ever been, in the slightest 
degree impeached. 

The enemies of "The Burning" said, that Mr. 
Moore's explanatory letter was an ingenious but not 
an ingenuous one — for that, at any rate, it threw no 
light on the subject. — They cavilled at the words 
" and it was the only point on which there did exist 
any difference between us," professing to wonder 
what other "point" of any consequence could pos- 
sibly have been in discussion, save that of preserving 
or destroying the manuscript. They could not see, 
or were incapable of feeling, what paramount sense 
of delicacy or duty could operate upon a mind like 
Mr. Moore's to counterbalance the delicacy and duty 
due to his dead friend's fame, which, according to 
them, he had thus abandoned to a sea of idle specu- 
lation. —Moreover, they were unable to comprehend 
what business Mr. Murray the bookseller, or any of 
the gentlemen present, had with the business, when 
Mr. Moore had redeemed the MS., "with interest, 
etc.," and with his own money (that is, the sum he 
borrowed for the purpose.) Finally, it was past their 
understanding to conceive, how any person could 
allow his own fair, just, and hont urably-acquired pro- 
perty to be burnt and destroyed before his eyes,'and 
against his own protested opinion, even if, from an 
honest but too sensitive deference for others, he had 
conceded so far as to withhold its publication to •' a 
more convenient season ;" or simply to preserve it aa 
precious relic in his family. 

To this, the firm supporters of church and state— 
the pure sticklers for public morals- the friends o/ 



jecorum and decency — the respecters of the inviola- 
oility of domestic privacy — the foes to unlicensed wit 
and poetic license — the disinterested and tender re- 
orders ef Lord Byron's character itself, — one and all 
proudly replied, that Mr. Moore had performed one 
of the most difficult and most delicate duties that ever 
fell to the lot of man, friend, citizen, or christian to 
perform, in the most manly, friendly, patriotic, and 
christian-like manner. As a man, he had nobly 
sacrificed his private interest and opinion, out of 
respect to Lord Byron's living connexions ; as a 
friend, he had evinced a real and rare friendship by 
withholding, at his own personal loss, those self-and- 
thoughtlessly-intruded specks and deformities of a 
great character from the popular gaze, which delights 
too much to feast on the infirmities of noble minds. 
As a citizen, he has forborne to display sparkling wit 
at the expense of sound morality ; and, finally, as a 
christian, he had acted like a good and faithful servant 
of the church, in leaving his friend's memory, and 
exposing his own reputation, to martyrdom, from the 
most religious and exalted motives. 

The private and particular friends of Mr. Moore 
brielly and triumphantly referred to his unspotted 
character, 

Which never yet the breath of calumny had tainted, 
and they properly condemned uncharitable conjecture 
on a subject of which the most that could be said was 
Causa latet, vis est notissima. 

The Examiner newspaper gave the subjoined state- 
ment, which, if it were properly authenticated, would 
at once set the matter at rest, to the entire justification 
of the Bard of Erin. 

"We were going to allude again this week to the 
question between Mr. Moore and the public, respect- 
ing the destruction of Lord Byron's Memoirs. We 
have received several letters expressing the extreme 
mortification of the writers on learning the fact, and 
venting their indignation in no very measured terms 
against the perpetrators; and we should not have con- 
cealed our own opinion that, however nobly Mr. 
Thomas Moore may have acted as regards his own 
interest, his published letter makes out no justification 
either in regard to his late illustrious friend, whose 
reputation was thus abandoned without that defence 
which probably his own pen could alone furnish, of 
many misrepresented passages in his conduct; or 
in regard to the world, which is thus robbed of a 
treasure that can never be replaced. But we have 
learnt one fact, which puts a different face upon the 
whole matter. It is, that Lord Byron himself did not 
wish the Memoir* puldished. How they came into 
the hands of Mr. Moore and the bookselfer— for what 
purpose and under what reservations — we shall pro- 
bably be at liberty to explain at a future time ; for the 
present, we can only say that such is the fact, as die 
noble poet's intimate friends can testify." 

This is indeed an explanation "devoutly to be 
wished," nor can we conceive why it should be still 
delayed. It is highly probable, however, that Mr. 
Moore will himself fully and satisfactorily elucidate 
the affair, in the life he is said to be writing of Lord 
Byron. 

Such were the conflicting opinions of the time re- 



lating to this mysterious and painfully delicate sub- 
ject; on which, however, we are bound to introduct 
a few summary remarks. 

When Lord Byron's death was once ascertained, 
the whole interest of society seemed centered in his 
Memoirs. Curosity swallowed up grief; and people 
becoming wearied by the comments of other writers 
on him who was no more, turned with unexampled 
anxiety to know what he had written upon himself 
Whether or not the public had a right to these Me- 
moirs, is a question which it is not, perhaps, quite 
useless to discuss. It is, at any rate, our opinion that 
they had the right ; and that the depositary of the 
manuscript was no more than a trustee for the public, 
however his individual interest was concerned or 
consulted. Lord Byron bequeathed his Memoirs to 
the world. The profits of their sale were alone 
meant for Mr. Moore. Lord Byron's family had no 
pretension whatever to the monopoly. And though 
the delicate consideration of Mr. Moore prompted 
his offer of having the manuscript perused and puri- 
fied, if such be the proper word, by the nearest sur- 
viving relative of Lord Byron, we maintain that he 
was right, strictly right, in protesting against its un- 
conditional destruction. 

For ourselves, we think that, in respect to the 
burning, Mr. Moore's conduct is not clearly under- 
stood or appreciated. Some blame, as we have 
shown, appears to have been attached to his share in 
the matter, not only in Great Britain, but on the con- 
tinent, where the subject excited an interest quite as 
lively as in England. But it is our opinion that Mr 
Moore's conduct in the affair has been too hastily 
condemned. One duty, we think, remains for his. 
performance — but one, and that most imperative . it 
is to give to the world the genuine work of Lord 
Byrcn, if it be in his power to do so. The opinion 
is at all events wide spread, if not well founded, thai 
one copy at least of the original work is in existence. 
That opinion is afloat, and nothing will sink it. If 
the life which Mr. Moore is supposed to be prepar- 
ing come out as his own production, it will be diffi 
cult, if not impossible, to convince the public that i 
is not a compilation from the copy which we allude 
to, or from a memory powerfully tenacious of tha 
original. If it be not avowed as such, its genuineness 
will be doubted, and a dozen spurious lives will pro 
bably appear, professing to be that identical copy, of 
whose existence no one will consent to doubt. No 
reasoning, nothing, in fact, short of Mr. Moore's 
positive assertion to the contrary, will persuade peo- 
ple that he could, for years, have run the risk of 
leaving so interesting a manuscript, or that he could 
have entrusted it, without possessing a implicate, in 
the hands of any one. And, at all events, it will be 
thought morally certain, that more than one of those 
to whom it was entrusted had curiosity enough to 
copy it ; and very improbable that any one had ho- 
nesty enough to confess it. 

Besides these reasons for the publication of the 
real Memoirs, supposing a copy to exist, there is one 
of such paramount importance, that we are sure it 
must have struck every body who has thought at all 
upon the subject. We mean the retrospective injury 
done to the character of the deceased, by the conjee 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE 



tures which are abroad, as to the nature of the Me- 
moirs he left behind. We do not pretend to bo in 
the secret of their contents, but we are quite sure they 
can be in no way so reprehensible, as the public ima- 
gination, and the enemies of Lord Byron, have 
figured them to be ; and there is one notion concern- 
ing them, of a nature too delicate to touch upon, and 
for the removal of which no sacrifice of individual or 
family vanity would be a price too high. We have, 
moreover, good authority for believing that the Me- 
moirs might and ought to have been published, with 
perfect safety to public morals, and with a very con- 
siderable gratification to public anxiety. Curiosity, 
which is so contemptible in individuals, assumes a 
very different aspect when it is shared by society at 
large ; and a satisfaction which may be, in most in- 
stances, withheld from the one. ought very rarely to 
be refused to the other. Nothing has ever had such 
power of excitement upon the mass of mankind as 
private details of illustrious individuals ; and, most of 
all, what may be called their confessions: and if those 
individuals choose to make their opinions as much 
the property of the world after their death, as their 
conduct and works had been before, we repeat, that 
it is nothing short of a fraud upon the public to snatch 
away the treasure of which they were the just in- 
heritors. Nor must it be said that the property in 
question is of no intrinsic value. Every thing which 
ministers to the public indulgence is of wealth pro- 
portioned to its rarity — and in this point of view Lord 
Byron's Memoirs were beyond price. If they con- 
tain gross scandal, or indecent disclosure, let such 
parts be suppressed ; and enough will remain amply 
to satisfy all readers. But we say this merely for the 
sake of supposition, and for the purpose of refuting 
an argument founded in an extreme case ; we have 
great pleasure in believing that the only pretence for 
such an imputation on the manuscript, was the selfish 
or squeamish act of its suppression. 

We trust that Mr. Moore will yet consider well the 
part he has to perform ; that he is not insensible to 
the narrow scrvtmy which the public displays in this 
affair, and which posterity will confirm ; and that he 
will, on this occasion, uphold the character for in- 
tegrity and frankness which is so pre-eminently his. 
We speak with certitude of his disinterested and up- 
right feelings throughout ; we only hope his delicacy 
towards others may not lead him too far towards the 
risk of his own popularity, or the sacrifice of what we 
designate once more the public property. 

If credit may be given to Captain Med win, Lord 
Byron was most desirous for the posthumous print- 
ing of his Memoirs ; and he seems, indeed, to have 
intrusted them to Mr. Moore, as a safeguard against 
that very accident into which the high-wrought no- 
tions of delicacy of the trustee, and his deference to 
Ae relations and friends of the illustrious deceased, 
actually betrayed them. Lord Byron seems to have 
been aware of the prudery of his own immediate con- 
nexions ; and in the way in which he bestowed the 
manuscript, to have consulted at once his generous 
disposition towards a friend, and his desire of security 
against mutilation or suppression. On this subject 
Captain Medwin's Journal makes him speak as fol- 
lows : " I am sorry not to have a copv of my Memoirs 



to show you. I gave them to Moore, or rather to 
Moore's little boy."* 

"I remember saying, 'Here are two thousand 
pounds for you, my young friena.' I made one re- 
servation in the gift — that they were not to be publish- 
ed till after my death." 

" 1 have not the least objection to their being cir- 
culated ; in fact they have been read by some of mine, 
and several of Moore's friends and acquaintances 
among others they were lent to Lady Burghersh. On 
returning the manuscript, her ladyship told Moore 
that she had transcribed the whole work. This 
was un pen fcrt, and he suggested the propriety of 
her destroying the copy. She did so, by putting it 
into the fire in his presence. Ever since this hap- 
pened, Douglas Kinnaird has been recommending 
me to resume possession of the manuscript, thinking 
to frighten me by saying, that a spurious or a real 
copy, surreptitiously obtained, may go forth to the 
world. I am quite indifferent about the world know- 
ing all that they contain. There are very few licen* 
tious adventures of my own, or scandalous anecdoi.es 
that will affect others, in the book. It is taken up 
from my earliest recollections, almost from child- 
hood — very incoherent, written in a very loose and 
familiar style. The second part will prove a good 
lesson to young men ; for it treats of the irregular 
life I led at one period, and the fatal consequences 
of dissipation. There are few parts that may not, 
and none that will not, be read by women." 

In this particular Lord Byron's fate has been sin- 
gular; and a superstitious person might be startled at 
the coincidence of so many causes, all tending to 
hide his character from the public. That scandal 
and envy should have been at work with such a man 
is not very extraordinary ; but the burning of his Me- 
moirs, and the subsequent injunction on the publica- 
tion of his Letters to his Mother, seem as if some- 
thing more than mere chance had operated to preserve 
unconfuted the calumnies of the day, for the benefit 
of future biographers. Of these Letters a friend of 
ours was fortunate enough to obtain a glimpse, and 
never, he told us, was more innocent, and at the 
same time more valuable matter, so withheld from 
the world. It were, he observed, but an act of cold 
justice to the memory of Lord Byron to state, pub- 
licly, that they appear the reflections of as generous 
a mind as ever committed its expression to paper : 
for though, indeed, the traces of his temperament, and 
of his false position in society, are there, still the sen- 
timents are lofty and enthusiastic ; and every line be- 
trays the warmest sympathy with human suffering, 
and a scornful indignation against mean and disgrace- 
ful vice. 

The extempore song, addressed by Lord Byron to 
Mr. Moore, on the latter 's last visit to Italy, proves 
the familiar intercourse and friendship that subsisted 
between him and the subject of this memoir. The 
following stanzas are very expressive : — 



* There is some trifling inaccuracy in this, as Moore' 
son was not with him in Italy. It is nevertheless true, as 
we are assured, that this was the turn which Lord Byron 
gave to his present, in order to make it more acceptable :o 
his friend. 



Were 't the last drop in tlie well, 

As I gasp'd i-.pon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'T is to thee that I would drink. 

In that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — Peace to thine and mine, 

And a health to thee., Turn Moor el 

When Lord Byron had published his celebrated 
satire of " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," in 
which our poet, in common with most of his distin- 
guished contemporaries was visited rather "too 
roughly" by the noble modern Juvenal, his lordship 
expected to be " called out," as the fashionable phrase 
is ; bat no one had courage to try his prowess in the 
field, save Mr. Moore, who did not relish the joke 
about " Little's leadless pistols," and sent a letter to 
his lordship in the nature of a challenge, but which 
he, by his leaving the country, did not receive. On 
Byron's return, Mr. Moore made inquiry if he had 
received the epistle, and stated that, on account of 
certain changes in his circumstances, he wished to 
recal it, and become the friend of Byron, through 
Rogers, the author of " The Pleasures of Memory," 
and who was intimate with both the distinguished 
bards. The letter, addressed to the care of Mr, 
Hanson, had been mislaid ; search was made for it, 
and Byron, who at first did not hke this offer, of one 
hand with a pistol, and the other to shake in fellow- 
ship, felt very awkward. On the letter being re- 
covered, however, he delivered it unopened to Mr, 
Moore, and they afterwards continued, to the last, 
most particular friends. 

It is but jrstice to the unquestionable courage and 
(spirited conducf of the Bard of Erin, to observe here 
that, though Byron had stated the truth about the said 
"leadless pistols," he had not stated the whole truth. 
The facts were these: Mr. Jeffrey, the celebrated 
critic, and editor of the Edinburgh Review, had, in 
''good set phrase." abused the Poems cf Thomas 
Little, Esq., alia." Thomas Moore, Esq. ; and the lat- 
ter, not choosing to put up with the flagellation of 
the then modern Aristarchus, challenged him. When 
they arrived at Chalk Farm, the place fixed on for the 
duel, the police were ready, and deprived them of 
their lire-arms. On drawing their contents, the com- 
pound of "vilianous saltpetre" was found, but the 
cold lead, 

The pious metal most in requisition 
On such occasions, 

had somehow disappeared. The cause was this : 
One of the balls had fallen out in the carriage, and 
the seconds, with a laudable anxiety to preserve the 
public peace, to save the shedding of such valuable 
blood, and to make both equal, drew the other ball. 

In his youth Mr. Moore was in the high road to 
court favour, and had his spirit been less independent, 
we mighr even have had a Sir Thomas More in our 
days. It is said that when the juvenile Anacreon was 
introduced to the then Prince of Wales, His Royal 
Highness inquired of him whether he was a son of 
Dr. Moore, the celebrated author of Zeluco ; and that 
the bard promptly replied, "No, Sir; lam the son of 
a grocer at Dublin !" 

The following anecdote shows that His Majesty 



King George the Fourth did not forget to pay off the 
Prince of Wales's " old score" with our poet : — In 
the king's presence, a critic, speaking of the "Life 
of Sheridan," declared that Moore had murdered his 
friend. " You are too severe," said his Majesty, " I 
cannot admit that Mr. Moore has murdered Sheridan, 
but he has certainly attempted his life" 

It was not till after the Prince of Wales's invest- 
ment with regal power, that Mr. Moore -levelled the 
keen shafts of his " grey goose quill" against that 
illustrious personage. He had previously dedicated 
the translation of Anacreon to His Royal Highness, 
by whom, it is said, his poetry was much admired. 
We question, though, if his verse was as palatable to 
the Prince Regent, as it had been to the Prince of 
Wales. Mr. Moore, perhaps, thought as one of his 
predecessors had done on this subject, of whom the 
following anecdote is recorded. Pope, dining one 
day with Frederic, Prince of Wales, paid the prince 
many compliments. "I wonder," taid his Royal 
Highness, " that you, who are so severe on kings, 
should be so complaisant to me." "It is," replied 
the witty bard, " because I like the lion before his 
claws are grown." 

The name of Anacreon Moore, by which our au 
thor is distinguished, is not so much his due from the 
mere circumstance of his having translated the odes 
of the Teian bard, as from the social qualities which 
he is known to possess, and the convivial spirit of his 
muse. Mr. Moore seems to be of opinion, that 
If with water you fill up your glasses, 

You'll never write any thing wise; 
For wine is the horse of Parnassus, 
Which hurries a bard to the skies. 
He is not, however, ungrateful for whatever share 
conviviality may have had in inspiring his muse, but 
has amply acknowledged it in the elegant and glow- 
ing terms in which he has celebrated its praises. No 
individual presides with more grace at the convivial 
board, nor is there one whose absence is more iia^i'S 
to be regretted by his friends. 

Being on one occasion prevented from attending a 
banquet where he was an expected guest, and where, 
hi consequence, every thing seemed (to use a familiar 
phrase) out of sorts, a gentleman, in the fervour of 
his disappointment, exclaimed, "Give us but one 
Anacreon more, ye gods, whatever else ye do deny 
us." 

Presiding once at a tavern dinner, where some of 
the company were complaining that there was no 
game at the table, a gentleman present, alluding to 
the fascinating manners of Mr. Moore, who " kept the 
table in a roar," said, "Why, gentlemen, what better 
game would you wish than moor game, of which I am 
sure you have abundance ?" 

At another time, after the pleasures of the evening 
had been extended to a pretty late hour, Mr. D. pro- 
posed, as a concluding bumper, the health of Mr. 
Moore ; a toast which, having been twice drank in the 
course of the evening, was objected to as unneces- 
ry. Mr. D., however, persisted in giving the toast ; 
and quoted in support of it the following passage from 
Mr. Moore's translation of the eighth ode of Ana 
creon. " Let us drink it now," said he, 

For death may come with brow unpleasant, 
May come when least we wish him present, 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And beckon to the sable shore, 
And grimiy bid us — drink no More! 

We here terminate the Biographical part of our 
sketch ; and, after a few introductory and general re 
marks, shall proceed to take a critical review of our 
author's principal works, including some interesting 
sketches and anecdotes of ancient minstrelsy, illus- 
trative of the " Irish Melodies." 

Moore is not, like Wordsworth or Coleridge, the 
poet's poet ; nor is it necessary, in order to enjoy his 
writings, that we should create a taste for them other 
than what we received from nature and education. 
Yet his style is condemned as tinsel and artificial, 
whereas the great praise bestowed on those preferred 
to it is, that they are the only true natural. — Now if 
it requires study and progressive taste to arrive at a 
sense of the natural, and but common feeling to enjoy 
the beauties of the artificial, then certainly these names 
have changed places since we met them in the dic- 
tionary. 

Formerly, people were content with estimating 
books — persons are the present objects universally. 
It is not the pleasure or utility a volume affords, which 
is taken into consideration, but the genius which it 
indicates. Each person is anxious to form his scale 
of excellence, and to range great names, living or 
dead, at certain intervals and in different grades, self 
being the hidden centre whither all the comparisons 
verge. In former times works of authors were com 
posed with ideal or ancient models, — the humble 
crowd of readers were content to peruse and admire. 
At present it is otherwise, — every one is conscious of 
having either written, or at least having been able to 
write a book, and consequently all literary decisions 
affect them personally : — 

Scribendi nihil a me alienum puto, 

is the language of the age] and the most insignificant 
calculate on the wonders they might have effected, 
had chance thrown a pen in their way. — The literary 
character has, in fact, extended itself over the whole 
face of society, with all the evils that D'Israeli has 
enumerated, and ten times more — it has spread its 
fibres through all ranks, sexes, and ages. There no 
longer exists what writers used to call a public — that 
disinterested tribunal has long since merged in the 
body it used to try. Put your finger on any head in 
a crowd — it belongs to an author, or the friend of one, 
and your great authors are supposed to possess a 
quantity of communicable celebrity : an intimacy with 
one of them is a sort of principality, and a stray anec- 
dote picked up, rather a valuable sort of possession. 
These people are always crying out against person- 
ality, and personality is the whole business of their 
lives. They can consider nothing as it is by itself; 
the cry is, " who wrote it ?" — " what manner of man 
is he ?" — " where did he borrow it ?" They make 
puppets of literary men by their impatient curiosity ; 
and when one of themselves is dragged from his ma- 
lign obscurity in banter or whimsical revenge, he calls 
upon all the gods to bear witness to the malignity he 
is made to suffer. 

It is this spirit which has perverted criticism, and 
reduced it to a play of words. To favour this vain 
eagerness of comparison, all powers and faculties are 
resolved at once into genius — that vague quality, the 



supposition of which is at every one's command ; and 
characters, sublime in one respect, as they are con 
temptible in another, are viewed under this one 
aspect. The man, the poet, the philosopher, are 
blended, and the attributes of each applied to all 
without distinction. One person inquires the name 
of a poet, because he is a reasoner ; another, because 
he is mad ; another, because he is conceited. John- 
son's assertion is taken for granted — that genius is 
but great natural power directed towards a particular 
object : thus all are reduced to the same scale, and 
measured by the same standard. This fury of com- 
parison knows no bounds ; its abettors, at the same 
time that they reserve to themselves the full advan- 
tage of dormant merit, make no such allowance to 
established authors. They j udge them rigidly by their 
pages, assume that their love of fame and emolument 
would not allow them to let any talent be idle, and 
will not hear any arguments advanced for their unex- 
pected capabilities. 

The simplest and easiest effort of the mind is 
egotism, — it is but baring one's own breast, disclosing 
its curious mechanism, and giving exaggerated ex> 
pressions to every-day feeling. Yet no productions 
have met with such success ; — what authors can com- 
pete, as to popularity, with Montaigne, Byron, Rous- 
seau ? Yet we cannot but believe that there have 
been thousands of men in the-world who could have 
walked the same path, and perhaps met with the same 
success, if they had had the same confidence. Pas- 
sionate and reflecting minds are not so rare as we 
suppose, but the boldness that sets at nought society 
is. Nor could want of courage be the only obstacle 
there are, and have been, we tru^t, many who would 
not exchange the privacy of their mental sanctuary, 
for the indulgence of spleen, or the feverish dream of 
popular celebrity. And if we can give credit for this 
power to the many who have lived unknown and 
shunned publicity, how much more must we not be 
inclined to allow to him of acknowledged genius, and 
who has manifested it in works of equal beauty, and 
of greater merit, inasmuch as they are removed from 
self? It has been said by a great living author and 
poet,* that " the choice of a subject, removed from 
self, is the test of genius." 

These considerations ought, at least, to prevent us 
from altogether merging a writer's genius in his 
works, and from using the name of the poem and that 
of the poet indifferently. For our part, we think that 
if Thomas Moore had the misfortune to be meta- 
physical, he might have written such a poem as the 
Excursion, — that had he condescended to borrow, and 
at the same time disguise the feelings of the great Lake 
Poets, he might perhaps have written the best parts 
of Childe Harold — and had he the disposition or the 
whim to be egotistical, he might lay bare a mind of 
his own as proudly and as passionately organized as 
the great lord did, whom some one describes " to have 
gutted himself body and soul, for all the world to 
walk in and see the show." 

So much for the preliminary cavils which are 
thrown in the teeth of Moore's admirers. They have 
been picked up by the small fry of critics, who com- 
menced their career with a furious attack on him, 



* Coleridge 



J 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Pope, and Campbell, but have since thought it becom- 
ing to grow out of their early likings. And at present 
they profess to prefer the great works which they 
have never read, and which they will never be able to 
read, to those classic poems, of which they have been 
the most destructive enemies, by bethumbing and 
quoting their beauties into triteness and common- 
place. 

The merits of Pope and Moore have suffered de- 
preciation from the same cause — the facility of being 
imir*ted to a certain degree. And as vulgar admira- 
tion seldom penetrates beyond this degree, the con- 
clusion is, that nothing can be easier than to write 
like, and even equal to, either of these poets. In the 
universal self-comparison, v*hich is above mentioned, 
as the foundation of modern criticism, feeling is as- 
sumed to be genius — the passive is considered to 
imply the active power. No opinion is more com- 
mon or more fallacious — it is the " flattering unction" 
which has inundated the world with versifiers, and 
which seems to under-rate the merit of compositions, 
in which there is more ingenuity and elegance than 
passion. Genius is considered to be little more than 
a capability of excitement — the greater the passion 
the greater the merit; and the school-boy key on 
which Mr. Moore's love and heroism are usually set, 
is not considered by any reader beyond his reach. 
This is certainly Moore's great defect ; but it is more 
that of his taste than >t any superior faculty. 

We shall now proceed to notice the most laboured 
and most splendid of Mr. Moore's productions — 
"LallaRookh:"— 

Then if, while scenes so grand, 

So beautiful, shine before thee, 
Pride, for thine own dear land, 

Should haply be stealing o'er thee; 
Oh ! let grief come first, 

O'er pride itself victorious, 
To think how man hath curst, 

What Heaven hath made so glorious. 

Several of our modern poets had already chosen 
the luxuriant climate of the East for their imagina- 
tions to revel in, and body forth their shapes of light ; 
but it is no less observable that they had generally 
failed, and the cause we believe to be this — that the 
partial conception and confined knowledge which 
they naturally possessed of a country, so opposed in 
the character of its inhabitants and the aspect of its 
scenery to their own, occasion them, after the man- 
ner of all imperfect apprehenders, to seize upon its 
prominent features and obvious characteristics, with- 
out entering more deeply into its spirit, or catching 
its retired and less palpable beauties. The sudden 
transplantation of an European mind into Asiatic 
scenes can seldom be favourable to its well-being and 
progress ; at least none but those of the first order 
would be enabled to keep their imaginations from de- 
generating into inconsistency and bombast, amid the 
swarms of novelties which start up at every step. 
Thus it is that, in nearly all the oriental poems added 
to our literature, we had the same monotonous as- 
semblage of insipid images, drawn from the peculiar 
phenomena and natural appearances of the country. 

We have always considered Asia as naturally the 
home of poetry, and the creator of poets. What 
makes Greece so poetical a country is, that at every 



step we stumble over recollections of departed gran- 
deur, and behold the scenes where the human mind 
has glorified itself for ever, and played a part, the re 
cords of which can never die. But in Asia, to the 
same charm of viewing the places of former power — 
of comparing the present with the past — there is 1 
added a luxuriance of climate, and an unrivalled 
beauty of external nature, which, ever according with 
the poet's soul, 

Temper, and do befit him to obey 
High inspiration. 

It was reserved for Mr. Moore to redeem the 
character of oriental poetry, in a work which stands 
distinct, alone, and proudly pre-eminent above all 
that had preceded it on the same subject. 

Never, indeed, has the land of the sun shone out so 
brightly on the children of the north — nor the sweets 
of Asia been poured forth — nor her gorgeousness 
displayed so profusely to the delighted senses of Eu- 
rope, as in the fine oriental romance of Lalla Rookh. 
The beauteous forms, the dazzling splendours, the 
breathing odours of the East, found, at last, a kindred 
poet in that Green Isle of the West, whose genius has 
long been suspected to be derived from a warmer 
clime, and here wantons and luxuriates in these vo- 
luptuous regions, as if it felt that it had at length re- 
cognized its native element. It is amazing, indeed, 
how much at home Mr. Moore seems to be in India, 
Persia, and Arabia; and how purely and strictly 
Asiatic all the colouring and imagery of his poem ap- 
pears. He is thoroughly imbued with the character 
of the scenes to which he transports us ; and yet the 
extent of his knowledge is less wonderful than the 
dexterity and apparent facility with which he has 
turned it to account, in the elucidation and embellish- 
ment of his poetry. There is not a simile, a descrip- 
tion, a name, a trait of history, or allusion of romance, 
which belongs to European experience, that does not 
indicate entire familiarity with the life, nature, and 
learning of the East. 

Nor are the barbaric ornaments thinly scattered to 
make up a show. They are showered lavishly over 
the whole work ; and form, perhaps too much, the 
staple of the poetry, and the riches of that which is 
chiefly distinguished for its richness. We would con- 
fine- this remark, however, to the descriptions of ex- 
ternal objects, and the allusions to literature and 
history — to what may be termed the materiel of the 
poetry we are speaking of The characters and sen- 
timents are of a different order. They cannot, in- 
deed, be said to be copies of an European nature ; 
but still less like that of any other region. They are, 
in truth, poetical imaginations ; — but it is to the poe- 
try of rational, honourable, considerate, and humane 
Europe that they belong — and not to the childishness, 
cruelty, and profligacy of Asia. 

There is something very extraordinary, we think, 
in this work — and something which indicates in the 
author, not only a great exuberance of talent, but a 
very singular constitution of genius. While it is moie 
splendid in imagery — and for the most part m very 
good taste — more rich in sparkling thoughts ana 
original conceptions, and more full indeed of exqui- 
site pictures, both of all sorts of beauties, and all sons 
of virtues, and all sorts of sufferings and crimes, than 
any other poem which we know cf ; we rather thmi< 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



we speak the sense of all classes of readers, when we 
add, that the effect of the whole is to mingle a certain 
feeling of disappointment with that of admiration — 
to excite admiration rather than any warmer senti- 
ment of delight — to dazzle more than to enchant — 
and, in the end, more frequently to startle the fancy, 
and fad|ue the attention, with the constant succession 
of glittering images and high-strained emotions, than 
to maintain a rising interest, or win a growing sympa- 
thy, by a less profuse or more systematic display of 
attractions. 

The style is, on the whole, rather diffuse, and too 
unvaried in its character. But its greatest fault is the 
uniformity of its brilliancy — the want of plainness, 
simplicity, and repose. We have heard it observed 
by some very zealous admirers of Mr. Moore's genius, 
that you cannot open this book without finding a 
cluster of beauties in every page. Now, this is only 
another way of expressing what we think its greatest 
defect. No work, consisting of many pages, shouid 
have detached and distinguishable beauties in every 
one of them. No great work, indeed, should have 
many beauties : if it were perfect it would have but 
one, and that but faintly perceptible, except on a view 
of the whole. Look, for example, at what is the most 
finished and exquisite production of human art — the 
design and elevation of a Grecian temple, in its old 
severe simplicity. What penury of ornament — what 



deeper: and though they first strike us as qualities 01 
the composition only, we find, upon a little reflection, 
that tiie same general character belongs to the fable, 
the characters, and the sentiments — that they all are 
alike in the excess of their means of attraction — and 
fail to interest, chiefly by being too interesting. 

We have felt it our duty to point out the lunlts of 
our author's poetry, particularly in respect to Lalla 
Rookh; but it would be quite unjust to characterize 
that splendid poem by its fkults, which are infinitely 
less conspicuous than its manifold beauties. There 
is not only a richness and brilliancy of diction and 
imagery spread over the whole work, that indicate 
the greatest activity and elegance of fancy in the au- 
thor; but it is every where pervaded, still more 
strikingly, by a strain of tender and noble feeling, 
poured out with such warmth and abundance, ds to 
steal insensibly on the heart of the reader, and gra- 
dually to overflow it with a tide of sympathetic emo- 
tion. There are passages, indeed, and these neither 
few nor brief, over which the very genius of poetry 
seems to have breathed his richest enchantment — 
where the melody of the verse and the beauty of the 
images conspire so harmoniously with the force and 
tenderness of the emotion, that the whole is blended 
into one deep and bright stream of sweetness and 
feeling, along which the spirit of the reader is borne 
passively through long reaches of delight. Mr 



nedect of beauties of detail — what masses of plain i Moore's poetry, indeed, where his happiest vein is 



surface — wnat rigid economical limitation to the 
useful and the necessary ! The cottage of a peasant 
is scarcely more simple in its structure, and has not 
fewer parts that are superfluous. Yet what grandeur 
— what elegance — what grace and completeness in 
the effect ! The whole is beautiful — because the 
beauty is in the whole ; but there is little merit in any 
of the parts except that of fitness and careful finishing. 
Contrast this with a Dutch, or a Chinese pleasure- 
house, where every part is meant to be beautiful, and 
the result is deformity — where there is not an inch of 
the surface that is not brilliant with colour, and rough 
with curves and angles, — and where the effect of the 
whole is displeasing to the eye and the taste. We 
are as far as possible from meaning to insinuate that 
Mr. Moore's poetry is of this description ; on the con- 
trary, we think his ornaments are, for the most part, 
truly and exquisitely beautiful ; and the general design 
of his pieces extremely elegant and ingenious: all 
that we mean to say is, that there is too much orna- 
ment — too many insulated and independent beauties 
— and that the notice and the very admiration they 
excite, hurt the interest of the general design, and 
withdraw our attention too importunately from it. 

Mr. Moore, it appears to us, is too lavish of his 
gems and sweets, and it may truly be said of him, in 
his poetical capacity, that he would be richer with 
half his wealth. His works are not only of rich ma- 
terials and graceful design, but they are every where 
glistening with small beauties and transitory inspira- 
tions — sudden flashes of fancy that blaze out and 
perish ; like earth-born meteors that crackle in the 
lower sky, and unseasonably divert our eyes from the 
great and lofty bodies which pursue their harmonious 
courses m a serener region. 

We have spoken of these as faults of style — but 
they coula scarcely have existed without going 



opened, realizes more exactly than that of any other 
writer, the splendid account which is given by Co 
mus* of the song of 

His mother Circe, and the sirens three, 

Amid the flowery-kirtled Naiades, 

Wlio, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul, 

And lap it in Elysium. 

And though it is certainly to be regretted that h«» 
should occasionally have broken the measure with 
more frivolous strains, or filled up its intervals with a 
sort of brilliant falsetto, it should never be forgotten, 
that his excellences are as peculiar to himself as his 
faults, and, on the whole, we may assert, more 
characteristic of his genius. 

The legend of Lalla Rookh is very sweetly and 
gaily told ; and is adorned with many tender as well 
as lively passages — without reckoning among the lat- 
ter the occasional criticisms of the omniscient Fadla- 
deen, the magnificent and most infallible grand cham- 
berlain of the haram — whose sayings and remarks, 
by the by, do not agree very well with the character 
which is assigned him — being for the most part very 
smart, snappish, and acute, and by no means solemn, 
stupid, and pompous, as one would have expected. 
Mr. Moore's genius perhaps, is too inveterately lively, 
to make it possible for him even to counterfeit dul- 
ness. We must now take a slight glance at the 
poetry. 

The first piece, entitled " The Veiled Prophet of 
Khorassan," is the longest, and, we think, certainly not 



* Wilton, who was much patronized by the illustrious 
house of Egerton, wrote the jVask of Co/nus upon John 
Egerton, then Earl of Bridgewater, when that noblemar., 
in 1634, was appointed Lord President of the principality 
of Wales. It was performed by three of his Lordship u 
children, before the Earl, at Ludlow Castle. — See the Works 
of the present Earl of Bridgewater 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



the best of the series. The story, which is not in all 'the ultimate result, even though they should appre- 
its parts extremely intelligible, >s founded on a vision, I ciate their own productions as highly as Milton hi 



in d'Herbelot, of a daring impostor of the early ages 
of Islamism, who Dretended to have received a later 
and more authoritative mission than that of the. Pro- 
phet, and to be destined to overturn all tyrannies and 
superstitions on the earth, and to rescue all souls that 
believed in him. To shade the celestial radiance of 
his brow, he always wore a veil of silver gauze, and 
was at last attacked by the Caliph, and exterminated 
with all his adherents. On this story Mr. Moore has 
engrafted a romantic and not very probable tale : yet, 
even with all its faults, it possesses a charm almost 
irresistible, in the volume of sweet sounds and beau- 
tiful images, which are heaped together with luxurious 
profusion in the general texture of the style, and 
invest even the faults of the story with the graceful 
amplitude of their rich and figured veil. 

" Paradise and the Peri" has none of the faults just 
alluded to. It is full of spirit, elegance, and beauty ; 
and, though slight in its structure, breathes throughout 
a most pure and engaging morality. 

" The Fire-worshippers" appears to us to be indis- 



Paradise Lost; while they who succeed in obtaining 
a large share of present applause, cannot but expe- 
rience frequent misgivings as to its probable duration : 
prevailing tastes have so entirely changed, and works, 
the wonder and delight of one generation, ha# been 
so completely forgotten in the next, that extent of 
reputation ought rather to alarm than assure an author 
in respect to his future fame. 

But Mr. Moore, independently of poetical powers 
of the highest order — independently of the place he 
at present maintains in the public estimation — has se- 
cured to himself a strong hold of celebrity, as durable 
as the English tongue. 

Almost every European nation has a kind of pri- 
mitive music, peculiar to itself, consisting of short 
and simple tunes or melodies, which, at the same 
time that they please cultivated and scientific ears, 
are the object of passionate and almost exclusive at- 
tainment by the great body of the people, constituting, 
in fact, pretty nearly the sum of their musical know- 
ledge and enjoyment. Being the first sounds with 



putably the finest and most powerful poem of them | which the infant is soothed in his nursery, with which 
all. With all the richness and beauty of diction that I he is lulled to repose at night, and excited to anima- 
belong to the best parts of Mokanna, it has a far more I tion in the day, they make an impression on the ima- 



interesting story ; and is not liable to the objections 
that arise against the contrivance and structure of the 
leading poem. The general tone of "The Fire-wor- 
Bhippers" is certainly too much strained, but, in spite 
of that, it is a work of great genius and beauty ; and 
not only delights the fancy by its general brilliancy 
and spirit, but moves all the tender and noble feel- 
ings with a deep and powerful agitation. 

The last piece, entitled " The Light of the Haram," 
is the gayest of the whole ; and is of a very slender 
fabric as to fable or invention. In truth, it has 
scarcly any story at all ; but is made up almost en- 
tirely of beautiful songs and fascinating descriptions. 

On the whole, it may be said of " Lalla Rookh," 
th'it its great fault consists in its profuse finery ; but 
it should be observed, that this finery is not the vulgar 
ostentation which so often disguises poverty or mean- 
ness — but, as we have before hinted, the extravagance 
of excessive wealth. Its great charm is in the inex- 
haustible copiousness of its imagery — the sweetness 
and ease of its diction — and the beauty of the objects 
and sentiments with which it is conceived. 

Whatever popularity Mr. Moore may have acquired 
as the author of Lalla Rookh, etc., it is as the author 
of the "Irish Melodies" that he will go down to pos- 
terity unrivalled and alone in that delightful species 
of composition. Lord Byron has very justly and pro- 
phetically observed, that " Moore is one of the few 
writers who will survive the age in which he so de- 
servedly flourishes. He will live in his ' Irish Melo- 
dies ;' they will go down to posterity with the music ; 
both will last as long as Ireland, or as music and 
poetry." 

If, indeed, the anticipation of lasting celebrity be 
the chief pleasure for the attainment of which poets 
bestow their labour, certainly no one can have en- 
gaged so much of it as Thomas Moore. It is evident 
that writers who fail to command immediate attention, 
and who look only to posterity for a just estimate of 
their merits, must feel more or less uncertainty as to 



gination that can never afterwards be effaced, and 
are consequently handed down from parent to child, 
from generation to generation, with as much uni- 
formity as the family features and dispositions. It is 
evident, therefore, that he who first successfully in- 
vests them with language, becomes thereby himself a 
component part of these airy existences, and commits 
his bark to a favouring wind, before which it shall pass 
on to the end of the stream of time. 

Without such a connexion as this with the national 
music of Scotland, it seems to us, that Allan Ram- 
say's literary existence must have terminated its 
earthly career long since ; but, in the divine melody 
of " The Yellow-hair' d Laddie" he has secured a 
passport to future ages, which mightier poets might 
envy, and which will be heard and acknowledged as 
long as the world has ears to hear. 

This is not a mere fancy of the uninitiated, or the 
barbarous exaggeration of a musical savage who nas 
lost his senses at hearing Orpheus's hurdy-gurdy, De- 
cause he never heard any thing better. One or the 
greatest composers that ever charmed the world — the 
immortal Haydn — on being requested to add sympno- 
nies and accompaniments to the Scotch airs, was so 
convinced of their durability, that he replied — " Mi 
vanto di questo lavoro, e per cio mi lusingo di vivere 
in Scozia molti anni dopo la mia morte." 

It is not without reason, therefore, that Mr. Moore 
indulges in this kind of second-sight, and exclaims (on 
hearing one of his own melodies re-echoed from a 
bugle in the mountains of Killarney,) 

Oh, forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath 
Seem'd to circle his name with a charm against death, 
He should feel a proud spirit within him proclaim, 
Even so shall thou live in the echoes of fame; 
Even so. though thy mem'ry should now die away, 
'Twill be caught up again in some happier day, 
And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, 
Through the answering future, thy name and thv song' 

In truth, the subtile essences of these tunes presen/ 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



no object upon which time or violence can act. Py- 
ramids may moulder away, and bronzes be decom- 
posed ; but the breeze of heaven which fanned them 
in their splendour shall sigh around them in decay, 
and by its mournful sound awaken all the recollections 
of their former glory. Thus, when generations shall 
have sunk into the grave, and printed volumes been 
consigned to oblivion, traditionary strains shall pro- 
long our poet's existence, and his future fame shall 
not be less certain than his present celebrity. 

Like the gale that sighs along 

Beds of oriental flowers, 
Is the grateful breath of song, 

That once was heard in happier hours. 
Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on, 

Though the flowers have sunk in death; 
So when the Bard of Love is gone, 

His mem'ry lives in Music's breath! 

Almost every European nation, as we before ob- 
served, has its own peculiar set of popular melodies, 
differing as much from each other in character as the 
nations themselves ; but there are none more marked 
or more extensively known than those of the Scotch 
and Irish. Some of these may be traced to a very 
remote era; while of others the origin is scarcely 
known ; and this is the case, especially, with the airs 
of Ireland. With the exception of those which were 
produced by Carolan, who died in 1738, there are 
few of which we can discover the dates or composers. 

That many of these airs possess great beauty and 
pathos, no one can doubt who is acquainted with the 
selections that have been made by Mr. 3Ioore ; but as 
a genus or a style, they also exhibit the most unequi- 
vocal proofs of a rude and barbarous origin ; and 
there is scarcely a more striking instance of the prone- 
ness of mankind to exalt the supposed wisdom of 
their ancestors, and to lend a ready ear to the mar- 
vellous, than the exaggerated praise which the authors 
of this music have obtained. 

It is natural to suppose that in music, as in all 
other arts, the progress of savage man was gradual ; 
that there is no more reason for supposing he should 
have discovered at once the seven notes of the scale, 
than that he should have been able at once to find 
appropriate language for all the nice distinctions of 
morals or metaphysics. We shall now pass to some 
interesting accounts of the Bards of the " olden time," 
which come within the scope of our subject when 
speaking of the present Bard of Erin, and his " Irish 
Melodies." 

Dr. Burney observes, that "the first Greek mu- 
sicians were gods ; the second, heroes ; the third, 
bards , the fourth, beggars !" During the infancy of 
music in every country, the wonder and affections of 
the people were gained by surprise; but when mu- 
sicians became numerous, and ihe art was regarded 
of easier acquirement, they lost their favour; and, 
from being seated at the tables of kings, and helped 
to the first cut, they were reduced to the most abject 
state, and ranked amongst rogues and vagabonds. 
That this was the cause of the supposed retrograda- 
tion of Irish music, we shall now proceed to show, 
by some curious extracts from, contemporary writers. 

The professed Bards, of the earliest of whom we 
have not any account, having united to their capacity 
of musicians the functions of priests, could not fail to 



obtain for themselves, in an age of ignorance and 
credulity, all the influence and respect which that 
useful and deserving class of men have never failed 
to retain, even among nations who esteem themselves 
the most enlightened. But the remotest period in 
which their character of musician was disengaged 
from that of priest, is also the period assigned to the 
highest triumph of their secular musical skill and 
respectability. "It is certain," says Mr. Bunting (in 
his Historical and Critical Dissertation on the Harp,) 
" tliat the further we explore, while yet any light re- 
mains, the more highly is Irish harder minstrelsy ex- 
tolled." 

" The oldest Irish tunes (says the same writer) are 
said to be the most perfect," and history accords with 
this opinion. Vin. Galilei, Bacon, Stanishurst, Spen- 
ser, and Camden, in the 16th century, speak warmly 
of Irish version, but not so highly as Polydore Virgil 
and Major, in the 15th, Clynn, in the middle of the 
14th, or Fordun, in the 13th. As we recede yet fur- 
ther, we find Giraldus Cambrensis, G. Brompton, and 
John of Salisbury, in the 12th century, bestowing still 
more lofty encomiums ; and these, again, falling short 
of the science among us in the 11th and 10th centu- 
ries. In conformity with this, Fuller, in his account 
of the Crusade conducted by Godfrey of Bologne, 
says, " Yea, we might well think that all the concert 
of Christendom in this war would have made no 
music, if the Irish Harp had been wanting." 

In those early times the Irish bards were invested 
with wealth, honours, and influence. They wore a 
robe of the same colour as that used by kings ; were 
exempted from taxes and plunder, and were billeted 
on the country from Allhallow-tide to May, while 
every chief bard had thirty of inferior note under his 
orders, and every second-rate bard fifteen. 

John of Salisbury, in the 12th century, says, that 
the great aristocrats of his day imitated Nero in their 
extravagant love of fiddling and singing ; that " they 
prostituted their favour by bestowing it on minstrels 
and buffoons ; and that, by a certain foolish and shame- 
ful munificence, they expended immense sums of mo- 
ney on their frivolous exhibitions." " The courts of 
princes," says another contemporary writer, "are 
rilled with crowds of minstrels, who extort from them 
gold, silver, horses, and vestments, by their flattering 
songs. I have known some princes who have be- 
stowed on these minstrels of the Devil, at the very 
first word, the most curious garments, beautifully em- 
broidered with flowers and pictures, which had cost 
them twenty or thirty marks of silver, and which they 
had not worn above seven days !" 

From the foregoing account, by Salisbury John, 
the twelfth century must, verily, have been the true 
golden age for the sons of the lyre ; who were then, it 
seems, clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared 
sumptuously every day. It is true, they were flatter- 
ers and parasites, and did " dirty work" for it in those 
days ; but, at any rate, princes were then more 
generous to their poet-laureates, and the sackbut and 
the song were better paid for than in a simple butt 
of sack. 

According to Stowe, th# minstrel had still a ready 
admission into the presence of kings in the 4th cen- 
tury. Speaking of the celebration ofVthe feast of 
Penteibst at Westminster, he savs " In the great 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



hall, when sitting royally at the table, with his peers 
about him, there entered a woman adorned like a 
minstrel, sitting on a great horse, trapped as minstrels 
then used, who rod* about the table showing pastime ; 
and at length came up to the king's table, and laid 
before him a letter, and, forthwith turning her horse, 
saluted every one and departed : when the letter was 
read, it was found to contain animadversions on the 
king. The door-keeper, being threatened for admit- 
ting her, replied, that it was not the custom of the 
king's palace to deny admission to minstrels, espe- 
pecially on such high solemnities and feast-days." 

In Froissart, too, we may plainly see what neces- 
sary appendages to greatness the minstrels were es- 
teemed, and upon what familiar terms they lived with 
their masters. When the four Irish kings, who had 
submitted themselves to Richard II. of England, were 
6at at table, " on the first dish being served they made 
their minstrels and principal servants sit beside them, 
and eat from their plates, and drink from their cups." 
The knight appointed by Richard to attend them 
having objected to this custom, on another day, " or- 
dered the tables to be laid out and covered, so that 
the kings sat at an upper table, the minstrels at a mid- 
dle one, and the servants lower still. The royal 
guests looked at each other, and refused to eat, say- 
ing, that he deprived them of their good old custom 
in which they had been brought up." 

However, in the reign of Edward II., a public edict 
was issued, putting a check upon this license, and 
limiting the number of minstrels to four per diem ad- 
missible to the tables of the great. It seems, too, that 
about this period the minstrels had sunk into a kind 
of upper servants of the aristocracy : they wore their 
lord's livery, and sometimes shaved the crown of their 
heads like monks. 

When war and hunting formed almost the exclu- 
sive occupation of the great ; when their surplus re- 
venues could only be employed in supporting idle 
retainers, and no better means could be devised for 
passing the long winter evenings than drunkenness 
and gambling, it may readily be conceived how wel- 
come these itinerant musicians must have been in 
baronial halls, and how it must have flattered the pride 
of our noble ancestors to listen to the eulogy of their 
own achievements, and the length of their own pedi- 
grees. 

Sir William Temple says, "the great men of the 
Irish septs, among the many officers of their family, 
which continued always in the same races, had not 
only a physician, a huntsman, a smith, and such like, 
out a poet and a tale-teller. The first recorded and 
sung the actions of their ancestors, and entertained 
the company at feasts ; the latter amused them with 
tales when they were melancholy and could not 
sleep ; and a very gallant gentleman of the north of 
Ireland has told me, of his own experience, that in 
Vis wolf-huntings there, when he used to be abroad in 
the mountains three or four days together, and lay 
very ill a-nights, so as he could not well sleep, they 
would bring him one of these tale-tellers, that when 
he lay down would begin a story of a king, a giant, a 
ffcvarf, or a damsel, and^uch rambling stuff, and con- 
tinue it all night long in such an even tone, that you 
heard it gorffg on whenever you awaked, and believed 
nothing any physicians give could have so gtood and 



so innocent an effect to make men sleep, in any pains 
or distempers of body or mind." 

In the reign of Elizabeth, however, civilization had 
so far advanced, that the music which had led away 
the great lords of antiquity no longer availed to de- 
lude the human understanding, or to prevent it from 
animadverting on the pernicious effects produced by 
those who cultivated the tuneful art. Spenser, in his 
view of the state of Ireland, says, " There is among 
the Irish a certain kind of people called Bardes, which 
are to them instead of poets, whose profession is to 
set forth the praises or dispraises of men in their 
poems or rithmes ; the which are had in so high re- 
gard and estimation among them, that none dare dis- 
please them, for fear to run into reproach through 
their offence, and to be made infamous in the mouths 
of all men. For their verses are taken up with a ge- 
neral applause, and usually sung at all feasts and 
meetings by certain other persons whose proper 
function that is, who also receive for the same great 
rewards and reputation among them. These Irish 
Bardes are, for the most part, so far from instructing 
young men in moral discipline, that themselves do 
more deserve to be sharply disciplined ; for they sel- 
dom use to choose unto themselves the doings of 
good men for the arguments of their poems ; but 
whomsoever they find to be most licentious of life, 
most bold and lawless in his doings, most dangerous 
and desperate in all parts of disobedience and rebel- 
lious disposition : him they set up and glorifie in their 
rithmes ; him they praise to the people, and to young 
men make an example to follow " The moralizing 
poet then continues to show the " effect of evil things 
being decked with the attire of goodly words," on 
the affections of a young mind, which, as he observes, 
"cannot rest;" for, "if he be not busied in some 
goodness, he will find himself such business as shall 
soon busy all about him. In which, if he shall find 
any to praise him, and to give him encouragement, as 
those Bardes do for little reward, or a share of a stolen 
cow, then waxeth he most insolent, and half mad with 
the love of himself and his own lewd deeds. And as 
for words to set forth such lewdness, it is not haul for 
them to give a goodly and painted show thereunto, 
borrowed even from the praises which are proper to 
virtue itself; as of a most notorious thief and wicked 
outlaw, which had lived all his life-time of spoils and 
robberies, one of their Bardes in his praise will say, 
that he was none of the idle milksops that was brought 
up to the fire-side ; but that most of his days he spent 
in arms and valiant enterprises — that he did never eat 
his meat before he had won it with his sword ; that 
he lay not all night in slugging in a cabin under his 
mantle, but used commonly to keep others waking to 
defend their lives; and did light his candle at tha 
flames of their houses to lead him in the darkness ; 
that the day was his night, and the night his day ; that 
he loved not to be long wooing of wenches to yield 
to him, but, where he came, he took by force the spoil 
of other men's love, and left but lamentation to their 
lovers ; that his music was not the harp, nor the lays 
of love, but the cries of people and the clashing of 
armour ; and, finally, that he died, not bewailed of 
many, but made many wail when he died, that dearly 
bought his death." 

It little occurred to Spenser that, in thus reprobating 



A SKETCH OF TH03IAS MOORE. 



these poor bards, he wns giving an admirable analysis 
»f the machinery and effects of almost all that poets 
Lave ever done ! 

In 1563 severe enactments were issued against these 
gentlemen, to "which was annexed the following — 
" Rem, for that those rhymers do, by their duties and 
rhymes, made to dyvers lordes and gentlemen in Ire- 
land, in the commendacion and highe praise of extor- 
tion, rebellion, rape, raven, and outhere injustice, en- 
courage those lordes and gentlemen rather to follow 
those vires than to leve them, and for mahing of such 
rhymes, rewards are given by the said lordes and gen- 
tlemen ; that for abolishinge of soo heynouse an 
abase," etc., etc. 

The feudal system, which encouraged the poetical 
state of manners, and afforded the minstrels worthy 
subjects for their strains, received a severe blow from 
the policy pursued by Elizabeth. This was followed 
up by Cromwell, and consummated by King William, 
of Orange memory. 

More recently a Scotch writer observes, " In Ire- 
land the harpers, the original composers, and the 
chief depositories of that music, have, till lately, been 
uniformly cherished and supported by the nobility and 
gentry. They endeavoured to outdo one another in 
playing the airs that were most esteemed, with cor- 
rectness, and with their proper expression. The 
taste for that style of performance seems now, how- 
ever, to be declining. The native harpers are not 
much encouraged. A number of their airs have come 
into the hands of foreign musicians, who have at- 
tempted to fashion them according to the model of 
the modern music ; and these acts are considered in 
the country as capital improvements." 

We have gone into the above details, not only be- 
cause they are in themselves interesting and illustra- 
tive of the " Irish Melodies," but because we fully 
coincide with the bard of "Childe Harold," that the 
lasting celebrity of Moore will be found in his lyrical 
compositions, with which his name and fame will be 
inseparably and immortally connected. 

Mr. Moore possesses a singular facility of seizing 
and expressing the prevailing association which a 
given air is calculated to inspire in the minds of the 
greatest number of hearers, and has a very felicitous 
talent in mahing this discovery, even through the en- 
velopes of prejudice or vulgarity. The alchemy by 
which he is thus accustomed to turn dross into gold 
is real!) surprising. The air which now seems framed 
for the sole purpose of giving the highest effect to the 
refined and elegant ideas contained in the stanzas 
"Sing, sine — music was given," has for years been 
known only as attached to the words of" Oh ! whack ! 
Judy O'Flanagan, etc.," and the words usually sung 
to the tune of Cumilum are of the same low and lu- 
dicrous description. He possesses, also, in a high 
degree, that remarkable gift of a poetical imagination, 
which consists in elevating and dignifying the mean- 
est subject on which it chooses to expatiate : 

As they, who to their couch at night 
Would welcome sleep, firsl quench the light- 
So must the hopes that keep this hreast 
Awake, be quench'd, e'er it can rest. 
Co! 1, cold my heart must grow, 
Unchanged by either joy or woe, 



Like freezing founts, where all that's thi 
Within their current turns to sto;;e. 

The ingenuity with which the above simiie is ap- 
plied, is not mere remarkable than the success witr, 
which the homely image of putting out the bed- candle 
before we sleep, is divested of every particle of vul- 
garity. 

In the same way, and with equal facility, the sud- 
den revival of forgotten feelings, at meeting with 
frieiids from whom we have been long separated, is 
compared to the discovering, by the application ot 
heat, letters written invisibly with sympathetic ink : — 

What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart 

In gazing on those we've been lost to so long ! 
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part 

Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng. 
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, 

When held to the flan:e will steal out to the sight; 
So many a feeling that long seem'd effaced, 

The warmth of a meeting like this hrwga to light. 

" Rich and Rare," taking music, words and all, is 
worth an epic poem to the Irish nation, — simple, ten- 
der, elegant, sublime, it is the very essence of poetry 
and music ; — there is not one simile or conceit, noi 
one idle crotchet to be met with throughout. 

The musical as well as the poetical taste of the 
author is evident in every line, nor is one allowed to 
shine at the expense of the other. Moore has com 
posed some beautiful airs, but seems shy of exercising 
this faculty, dreading, perhaps, that success in that 
pursuit would detract from his poetical fame. The 
union of these talents is rare, and some have affirmed 
that they even exclude one another. When Gretry 
visited Voltaire at Ferney, the philosopher paid hiui 
a compliment at the expense of his profession : 
" Vous etes musicien," said Voltaire, " et vous avez 
de l'esprit : cela est trop rare pour que je ne prenne 
pas a vous le plus vif interet." Nature certainly may 
be supposed not over-inclined to be prodigal in be- 
stowing on the same object the several gifts that are 
peculiarly hers; but, as far as the assertion rests on' 
experience, it is powerfully contradicted by the names 
of Moore and Rousseau. 

The late Mr. Charles Wolfe, having both a literary 
and a musical turn, occasionally employed himself in 
adapting words to national melodies, and in writing 
characteristic introductions to popular songs. Being 
fond of "The Last Rose of Summer" (Irish Mel. 
No. V.) he composed the following tale for its illus- 
tration : 

" This is the grave of Dermid : — He was the oesi 
minstrel among us all, — a youth of romantic genius, 
and of the most tremulous, and yet the most impetu- 
ous feeling. He knew all our old national airs, of 
every character and description : according as his 
song was in a lofty or a mournful strain, the village 
represented a camp or funeral ; but if Dermid were 
in his merry mood, the lads and lasses hurried into a 
dance, with a giddy and irresistible gaiety. One day 
our chieftain committed a cruel and wanton outrage 
against one of our peaceful villagers. Dermid's harp 
was in his hand when he heard it : — with all the 
thoughtlessness and independent sensibility of a poe#e 
indignation, he struck the chords that never spoke 
without response, and the detestation became univer 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



sal. He was driven from amongst us by our enraged 
chief; and all his relations, and the maid he loved, 
attended the minstrel into the wide world. For 
throe years there were no tidings of Dermid ; and the 
son<r ami the dance were silent ; when one of our lit- 
tle bovs came running in, and told us that he saw our 
minstrel approaching at a distance. Instantly the 
whole village was in commotion; the youths and 
maidens assembled on the green, and agreed to cele- 
brate the arrival of their poet with a dance ; they 
fixed upon the air he was to play for them; it was 
the merriest of his collection ; the ring was formed ; 
all looked eagerly to the quarter from which he was 
to arrive, determined to greet their favourite bard with 
a cheer. But they were checked the instant he ap- 
peared: he came slowly, and languidly, and loiteringly 
along; his countenance had a cold, dim, and careless 
aspect, very different from that expressive cheerfulness 
which marked his features, even in his more melancho- 
ly moments; his harp was swinging heavily upon his 
arm; it seemed a burthen to him; it was much shattered, 
and some of the strings were broken. He looked at us 
for a few moments, then, relapsing into vacancy, ad- 
vanced without quickening his pace, to his accustomed 
stone, and sate down in silence. After a pause, we 
ventured to ask him for his friends ; — he first looked 
up sharp in our faces, next down upon his harp; then 
struck i few notes of a wild and desponding melody, 
which we had never heard before ; but his hand drop- 
ped, and he did not finish it. — Again we paused: — 
then knowing well that, if we could give the smallest 
mirthful impulse to his feelings, his whole soul would 
soon follow, we asked him for the merry air we had 
chosen. We were surprised at the readiness with 
which he seemed to comply ; but it was the same wild 
and heart-breaking strain he had commenced. In 
fact, we found that the soul of the minstrel had be- 
come an entire void, except one solitary ray that vi- 
brated sluggishly through its very darkest path ; it was 
like the sea in a dark calm, which you only know to 
be in motion by the panting which you hear. He 
had totally forgotten every trace of his former strains, 
not only those that were more gay and airy, but even 
those of a more pensive cast ; and he had gotten in 
their stead that one dreary simple melody ; it was 
about a Lonely Rose, that had outlived all its com- 
panions ; this he continued singing and playing from 
day to day, until he spread an unusual gloom over the 
whole village : he seemed to perceive it, for he re- 
tired to the church-yard, and continued repairing 
thither to sing it to the day of his death. The afflicted 
constantly resorted there to hear it, and he died sing- 
ing it to a maid who had lost her lover. The orphans j 
have learnt it, and still chaunt it over Dermid's grave." 
" The Fudge Family in Paris" is a most humorous 
work, written partly in the style of "The Twopenny- 
Post Bag." These poetical epistles remind many 
persons of the " Bath Guide," but a comparison can 
hardly be supported; the plan of Mr. Moore's work 
being less extensive, and the subject more ephemeral. 
We pity the man, however, who has not felt pleased 
with this book ; even those who disapprove the au- 
thor's politics, and his treating Royally with so little 
reverence, must be bigoted and loyal to an excess if 
they deny his wit and humour. 
Mr. Moore, is his pieface to the "Loves of die 
D 



Angels," states, that he had somewhat hast< 
publication, to avoid the disadvantage 
work appear after his friend Lord Byron's "Jleiven 
and Earth;" or, as lie mgenioui 
an earlier appearance in the literary horizon, to give 
myself the chance of what astronomers call a 
rising, before the luminary, in whose light 1 was to 
be lost, should appear." This was an amiabl 
no means a reasonable modesty. The I 
round Mr. Moore's verses, tender. ind bril- 

liant, was in no danger of 1 oished even in 

the sullen glare of Lord B] 
as well expect an aurora borealis to he put e 
eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Though both bright 
stars in the firmament of modern poetry, they were as 
distant and unlike as Saturn and Mercury; and 
though their rising might be at the same time, they 
never moved in the same orb, nor met or jostled in 
the wide trackless way 6 av( ntion. 

Though these two celebrated writers in some 
measure divided the poetical public between them, 
yet it was not the same public whose favour I 
verally enjoyed in th< 

read and admired in the same extended circle of taste 
and fashion, each was the favourite of a total]; 
ent set of readers. Thus a lover may pay f 
attention to two different women ; but he only means 
to flirt with the one, while the other is the i 
of his heart. The gay, the fair, the witty, th< 
idolize Mr. Moore's delightful muse, or. her | 
of airy smiles or transient tears. Lord Byron's se- 
verer verse is enshrined in the breasts ofthosi 
gaiety has been turned to gall, whose fair ex;. 
a canker within — whose mirth has received a rebuke 
as if it were folly, from whom happiness has fled like 
a dream ! By comparing the ocids upon the known 
chances of human life, it is no wonder that the ad- 
mirers of his lordship's works should he more numer- 
ous than those of h ; s mine agreeable rival. We are 
not going to speak of any preference we may have, 
but we beg leave to make a distinction. The 
of Moore is essentially that of J try of 

Byron that ofjiasskm. If there is passion in the effu- 
sions of the one, the fancy by which it is expressed 
predominates over it ; if fancy is called to the aid of 
the Other, it is still subservient to the passion, ford 
Byron's jests are downright earnest; Air. Moore, 
when lie is most serious, seems half in jest. The 
latter dallies and trifles with his subject, caresses and 
grows enamoured of it; the former grasped it eagerly 
to his bosom, breathed death upon it, and turn 
it with loathing or dismay. The fine aroma that is 
exhaled from the flowers of poesy, every where lends 
its perfume to the verse of the hard of Iain. T 
bard (less fortunate in his musci tried to extract 
from them. If Lord Byron cast his own views 
bags upon outward objects (jaundicing the sun,j Mr. 
Moore seems to exist in the delights, the 
of nature. He is free of the Rosicrucian 
in ethereal existence among troops of sylphs and 
spirits, — in a perpetual vision of wings, flowers, rain- 
Hows, smiles, blush.es, tears, and kisses. Every pacre- 
of his work is a vignette, every line that he \. rites 
glows or sparkles, and it would <eem (to quote again 
the expressive words of Sheridan) "as if his airy 
spirit, drawn from the sun, continually fluttered wit]' 



A SKETCH OF THOMAS MOORE. 



fond aspirations, to regain that native source of light I and wearisome. It is the fault of Mr Wordsworth'* 



and heat." The worst is, our author's mind is too 
vivid, too active, to suffer a moment's repose. We 
are cloyed with sweetness, and dazzled with splen- 
dour. Every image must blush celestial rosy red, 
love's proper hue ; — every syllable must breathe a 
sigh. A sentiment is lost in a simile — the simile is 
overloaded with an epithet. It is " like morn risen on 
mid-noon." No eventful story, no powerful contrast, 
no moral, none of the sordid details of human life (all 
is ethereal ;) none of its sharp calamities, or, if they 
inevitably occur, his muse throws a soft, glittering 
veil over them, 

Like moonlight on a troubled sea, 
Brightening the storm it cannot calm. 

We do not believe that Mr. Moore ever writes a 
line that in itself would not pass for poetry, that is not 
at least a vivid or harmonious common-place. Lord 
Byron wrote whole pages of sullen, crabbed prose, 
that, like a long dreary road, however, leads to dole- 
ful shades or palaces of the blest. In short Mr. 
Moore's Parnassus is a blooming Eden, and Lord 
Byron's a rugged wilderness of shame and sorrow. 
On the tree of knowledge of the first you can see 
nothing but perpetual flowers and verdure ; in the last 
you see the naked stem and rough bark ; but it heaves 
at intervals with inarticulate throes, and you hear the 
shrieks of a human voice within. 

Critically speaking, Mr. Moore's poetry is chargea- 
ble with two peculiarities : first, the pleasure or interest 
he conveys to us is almost always derived from the 
first impressions or physical properties of objects, not 
from their connexion with passion or circumstances. 
His lights dazzle the eye, his perfumes soothe the 
smell, his sounds ravish the ear ; but then they do so 
for and from themselves, and at all times and places 
equally — for the heart has little to do with it. Hence 
we observe a kind of fastidious extravagance in Mr. 
Moore's serious poetry. Each thing must be fine, 
soft, exquisite in itself, for it is never set off by reflec- 
tion or contrast. It glitters to the sense through the 
atmosphere of indifference. Our indolent luxurious 
bard does not whet the appetite by setting us to hunt 
after the game of human passion, and is therefore 
obliged to hamper us with dainties, seasoned with 
rich fancy and the sauce piquante of poetic diction. 
Poetry, in his hands, becomes a kind of cosmetic art — 
it is the poetry of the toilet. His muse must be as 
fine as the Lady of Loretto. Now, this principle of 
composition leads not only to a defect of dramatic 
interest, but also of imagination. For every thing in 
this world, the meanest incident or object, may re- 
ceive a light and an importance from its association 
with other objects, and with the heart of man ; and 
the variety thus created is endless as it is striking and 
profound. But if we begin and end in those objects 
that are beautiful or dazzling in themselves and at the 
first blush, we shall soon be confined to a human re- 
ward of self-pleasing topics, and be both superficial 



poetry that he has perversely relied too much (or 
wholly) on this reaction of the imagination on sub- 
jects that are petty and repulsive in themselves ; and 
of Mr. Moore's, that he appeals too exclusively to 
the flattering support of sense and fancy. Secondly, 
we have remarked that Mr. Moore hardly ever de 
scribes entire objects, but abstract qualities of objects 
It is not a picture that he gives us, but an inventing 
of beauty. He takes a blush, or a smile, and runs on 
whole stanzas in ecstatic praise of it, and then diverges 
to the sound of a voice, and " discourses eloquent 
music" on the subject ; but it might as well be the 
light of heaven that he is describing, or the voice of 
echo — we have no human figure before us, no pal- 
pable reality answering to any substantive form or 
nature. Hence we think it may be explained why it 
is that our author has so little picturesque effect — with 
such vividness of conception, such insatiable ambition 
after ornament, and such an inexhaustible and de- 
lightful play of fancy. Mr. Moore is a colourist in 
poetry, a musician also, and has a heart full of ten- 
derness and susceptibility for all that is delightful and 
amiable in itself, and that does not require the ordeal 
of suffering, of crime, or of deep thought, to stamp it 
with a bold character. In this we conceive consists 
the charm of his poetry, which all the world feels, 
but which it is difficult to explain scientifically, and 
in conformity to transcendant rules. It has the charm 
of the softest and most brilliant execution ; there is no 
wrinkle, no deformity on its smooth and shining sur 
face. It has the charm which arises from the con- 
tinual desire to please, and from the spontaneous 
sense of pleasure in the author's mind. Without 
being gross in the smallest degree, it is voluptuous in 
the highest. It is a sort of sylph-like spiritualized 
sensuality. So far from being licentious in his Lalla 
Rookh, Mr. Moore has become moral and sentimental 
(indeed he was always the last,) and tantalizes his 
young and fair readers with the glittering shadows 
and mystic adumbrations of evanescent delights 
He, in fine, in his courtship of the Muses, resembles 
those lovers who always say the softest things on all 
occasions ; who smile with irresistible good humour 
at their own success ; who banisn pain and truth from 
their thoughts, and who impart tne delight they feel 
in themselves unconsciously to others ! Mr. Moore's 
poetry is the thornless rose — its touch is velvet, its 
hue vermilion, and its graceful form is cast in beauty's 
mould. Lord Byron's, on the contrary, is a prickly 
bramble, or sometimes a deadly upas, of form uncouth 
and uninviting, that has its root in the clefts of the 
rock, and its head mocking the skies, that wars with 
the thunder-cloud and tempest, and round which the 
loud cataracts roar. 
We here conclude our Sketch of 

Anacreon Moore, . 
To whom the Lyre and Laurels have been given 
With all the trophies of triumphant song— 
lie won them well, and may he wear them long! 



THE 



jKHnniaMi wmig£ w wmosnAS saosn 



■- o©-- 



L.AL.L.A ROOEH; 

AN ORIENTAL ROMANCE. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 




THIS POEM IS DEDICATED, 




BY HIS VERY GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, 




May 19, 1817. THOMAS MOORE. 


1 







LALLA ROOKH. 



Tn th c eleventh year of the reign of Aurungzebe, 
Abdalla, King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal de- 
scendant from the Great Zingis, having abdicated the 
throne in favour of his son, set out on a pilgrimage 
to the Shrine of the Prophet ; and, passing into India 
through the delightful valley of Cashmere, rested for 
a short time at Delhi on his way. He was entertained 
by Aurungzebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, 
worthy alike of the visiter and the host, and was 
afterwards escorted with the same splendour to Surat, 
where he embarked for Arabia. During the stay of 
the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a marriage was agreed 
upon between the Prince, his son, and the youngest 
daughter of the Emperor, Lalla Rookh 1 ; — a Prin- 
cess described by poets of her time, as more beauti- 
ful than Lelia, Shrine, Dewilde, or any of those hero- 
ines whose names and loves embellish the songs of 
Persia and Hindostan. It was intended that the nup- 
tials should be celebrated at Cashmere ; where the 
young King, as soon as the cares of empire would 
permit, was to meet, for the first time, his lovely bride, 
and after a few months' repose in that enchanting 
valley, conduct her over the snowy hills into Bucharia. 

The day of Lalla Rookh's departure from Delhi 
was as splendid as sunshine and pageantry could 
make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered 
with the' richest tapestry; hundreds of gilded barges 
upon the Jumna floated with their banners shining in 
the water ; while through the streets groups of beau- 
tiful children went strewing the most delicious flow- 
en around, as in that Persian festival called the Scat- 
raring of the Roses 2 ; till every part of the city was 



1 Tulip Cheek. 



2 Gul Rcazee. 



as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten haa 
passed through it. The Princess, having taken leave 
of her kind father, who at parting hung a cornelian 
of Yemen round her neck, on which was inscribed a 
verse from the Koran, — and having sent a considerable 
present to the Fakirs, who kept up the Perpetual Lamp 
in her sister's tomb, meekly ascended the palankeen 
prepared for her; and, while Aurungzebe stood to 
take the last look from his balcony, the procession 
moved slowly on the road to Lahore. 

Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so 
superb. From the gardens in the suburbs to the im- 
perial palace, it was one unbroken line of splendour. 
The gallant appearance of the Rajas and Mogul lords, 
distinguished by those insignia of the Emperor's fa- 
vour, the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in their 
turbans, and the small silver-rimmed kettle-drums at 
the bows of their saddles ; — the costly armour of 
their cavaliers, who vied on this occasion, with the 
guards of the great Keder Khan, in the brightness of 
their silver battle-axes and the massiness of their maces 
ofgold;-^the glittering of the gilt pine apples on the 
tops of the palankeens ; — the embroidered tappings 
of the elephants, bearing on their backs small turrets, 
in the shape of little antique temples, within which 
the Ladies of Lalla Rookh lay, as it were, enshrined, 
the rose-coloured veils of the Princess's own sump 
tuous litter, at the front of which a fair young femalo 
slave sat fanning her through the curtains, with fea- 
thers of the Argus pheasant's wing; and the lovely 
troop of Tartarian and Cashmenan maids of honour, 
whom the young King had sent to accompany hia 
bride, and who rode on each side of the litter, upon 
small Arabian horses ; — all was brilliant, tasteful, and 
magnificent, and pleased even the critical and fasti 
dious Fadladeen, Great Nazir or Chamberlain of 
the Haram, who was borne in his palankeen imine 



23 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



diately after the Princess, and considered himself not 
the least important personage of the pageant. 

Fadladeen was a judge of every thing, from the 
pencilling of a Circassian's eye-lids to the deepest 
questions of science and literature; from the mixture 
of a conserve of rose-leaves to the composition of an 
epic poem ; and such influence had his opinion upon 
the various tastes of the day, that ail the cooks and 
poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. His political 
conduct and opinions were founded upon that line of 
Sadi, " Should the Prince at noon-day say, it is night, 
declare that you behold the moon and stars." And 
his zeal for religion, of which Aurungzebe was a mu- 
nificent protector, was about as disinterested as that 
of the goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond 
eyes of the idol of Jaghernaut. 

During the first days of their journey, Lalla 
Rookif, who had passed all her life within the 
shadow of the Royal Gardens of Delhi, found enough 
in the beauty of the scenery through which they 
passed to interest her mind and delight her imagina- 
tion ; and, when at evening, or in the heat of the 
day, they turned off from the high road to those re- 
tired and romantic places which had been selected 
for her encampments, sometimes on the banks of a 
small rivulet, as clear as the waters of the Lake of 
Pearl; sometimes under the sacred shade of a Ban- 
yan tree, from which the view opened upon a glade 
covered with antelopes ; and often in those hidden, 
embowered spots, described by one from the Isles 
of the West, as " places of melancholy, delight, and 
safety, where all the company around was wild pea- 
cocks and turtle doves ;" — she felt a charm in these 
scenes, so lovely and so new to her, which, for a 
time, made her indifferent to every other amusement. 
But Lalla Rookh was young, and the young love 
variety ; nor could the conversation of her ladies and 
the Great Chamberlain, Fadladeen, (the only per- 
sons, of course, admitted to her pavilion,) sufficiently 
enliven those many vacant hours, which were devoted 
neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. There was 
a little Persian shave who sung sweetly to the Vina, 
and who now and then lulled the Princess to sleep 
with the ancient ditties of her country, about the loves 
of Wamak and Ezra, the fair haired Zal and his mis- 
tress Rodahver ; not forgetting the combat of Rustam 
with the terrible White Demon. At other times she 
was amused by those graceful dancing girls of Delhi, 
who had been permitted by the Bramins of the Great 
Pagoda to attend her, much to the horror of the good 
Mussulman Fadladeen, who could see nothing 
graceful or agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the 
rcry tinkling of their golden anklets was an abomi- 
nation . 

But these and many other diversions were repeated 
till they lost all their charm, and the nights and noon- 
days were beginning to move heavily, when at length, 
it was recollected that, among the attendants sent by 
the bridegroom was a young poet of Cashmere, much 
celebrated throughout the Valley for his manner of 
reciting the Stories of the East, on whom his Royal 
Master had conferred the privilege of being admitted 
to the pavilion of the Princess., that he might help to 
beguile the tediousness of dx journey by some of his 
mo?t agreeable recitals. A' the mention of a poet 
Fadladwsn ele.-itt.il his Cv'tical eve-brows, and, hav- 



ing refreshed his faculties with a dose of that deli 
cious opium, which is distilled from the black poppy 
of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to be 
forthwith introduced into the presence. 

The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet 
from behind the screens of gauze in her father's hall, 
and had conceived from that specimen no very fa- 
vourable ideas of the Cast, expected but little in this 
new exhibition to interest her ; — she felt inclined how- 
ever to alter her opinion on the very first appearance 
of Fera.morz. He was a youth about Lalla 
Rookii's own age, and graceful as that idol of wo- 
men, Crishna, 1 — such as he appears to their young 
imaginations, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from 
his very eyes, and exalting the religion of his wor- 
shippers into love. His dress was simple, yet not 
without some marks of costliness ; and the Ladies of 
the Princess were not long in discovering that the 
cloth, which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was 
of the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of 
Tibet supply. Here and there, too, over his vest, 
which was confined by a flowered girdle of Kashan, 
hung strings of fine pearl, disposed with an air of 
studied negligence; — nor did the exquisite embroi- 
dery of his sandals escape the observation of these 
fair critics ; who, however they might give way to 
Fadladeen upon the unimportant topics of religion 
and government, had the spirits of martyrs in every 
thing relating to such momentous matters as jewels 
and embroidery. 

For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recita- 
tion by music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand 
a kitar; — such as, in old times, the Arab maids of the 
West used to listen to by moonlight in the gardens 
of the Alhambra — and having premised, with much 
humility, that the story he was about to relate was 
founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet of 
Khorassan, who, in the year of the Hegira 163, 
created such alarm throughout the Eastern Empire, 
made an obeisance to the Princess, and thus began :— 

THE VEILED PROPHET OF 
KHORASSAN. 2 



In that delightful Province of the Sun, 
The first of Persian lands he shines upon, 
Where, all the loveliest children of his beam, 
Flowrets and fruits blush over every stream, 
And, fairest of ail streams, the Murga roves, 
Among Merou'S 3 bright palaces and groves ; — 
There, on that throne, to which the blind belief 
Of millions rais'd him, sat the Prophet-Chief, 
The Great Mokanna. O'er his features hung 
The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung 
In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight 
His dazzling brow, till man ccuJd bear its light. 
For, far less luminous, his votaries said 
Were ev'n the gleams, miraculously shed 
O'er Moussa V cheek, when down the mount he trod, 
All glowing from the presence of his God ! 

On either side, with ready hearts and hands, 
His chosen guard of bold Believers stands; 



1 The Indian Apollo. 

2 Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language, Pro 
'jnce, or region of ihe sun. Sir IV. Junes . 

3 One of the Royal cities of Khorassan. 4 Moses 



LALLA ROOKH. 



¥oung tire-eyed disputants, who deem their swords, 
On points of faith, more eloquent than words ; 
And such their zeal, there's not a youth with brand 
Uplifted there, but, at the Chief's command, 
Would make his own devoted heart its sheath, 
Amd bless the lips that doom'd so dear a death ! 
In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night, 1 
Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy white ; 
Their weapons various ;— some, equipped for speed, 
Witli javelins of the light Kathaiari reed ; 
Or bows of Buffalo horn, and shining quivers 
FiU'd with the stems 2 that bloom on Iran's rivers; 
While some, for war's more terrible attacks, 
Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle-axe ; 
And, as they wave aloft in morning's beam 
The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem 
Like a chenar-tree grove, when Winter throws 
O'er all its tufted heads his feathering snows. 

Between the porphyry pillars, that uphold 
The rich'moresque-work of the roof of gold, 
Aloft the Haram's curtain'd galleries rise, 
Where, through the silken net-work, glancing eyes, 
From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow 
Through autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp below. — 
What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, would dare 
To hint that aught but Heav'n hath plac'd you there ? 
Or that the loves of this light world could bind 
In their gross chain, your Prophet's soaring mind ? 
No — wrongful thought! — commission'd from above 
To people Eden's bowers with shapes of love, 
(Creatures so bright, that the same lips and eyes 
They wear on earth will serve in Paradise) 
There to recline among Heav'n' s native maids, 
And crown th' Elect with bliss that never fades ! — 
Well hath the Prophet-Chief his bidding done ; 
And every beauteous race beneath the sun, 
From those who kneel at Brahma's burning founts, 3 
To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er Yemen's mounts ; 
From Persia's eyes of full and fawn-like ray, 
To the small, half-shut glances of Kathav ; 4 
And Georgia's bloom and Azab's darker smiles, 
And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles , 
All, all are there ; — each land its flower hath given, 
To form that fair young Nursery for Heaven ! 

But why this pageant now ? this arm'd array ? 
What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day 
With turban'd heads, of every hue and race, 
Bowing before that veil'd and awful face, 
Like tulip-beds, of different shape and dye3, 
Bending beneath th' invisible West-wind's sighs ! 
What new-made mystery now, for Faith to sign, 
And blood to seal, as genuine and divine, — 
What dazzling mimicry of God's own power 
Hath the bold Prophet plann'd to grace this hour ? 
Not such the pageant now, though not less proud,— 
Yon warrior youth, advancing from the crowd, 
With silver bow, with belt of broider'd crape, 
And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape, 
So fiersely beautiful in form and eye, 
Like war's wild planet in a summer's sky ; — 



1 Black was the colour adopted by the Caliphs of the 
Housn of Abbas, in their garments, turbans, and standards. 

2 Pichula, used anciently for arrows by the Persians. 

3 The burning fountains of Brahma near Chittogong, 
jteemed as ho'r. Turner. 

4 China 



That youth to-day, — a proselyte, worth hordes 
Of cooler spirits and less practis'd swords, — 
Is come to join, all bravery and belief, 
The creed and standard of the heav'n-sent Chief. 

Though few his years, the West already knows 
Young Azim's fame ; — beyond th' Olympian snows, 
Ere manhood darken'd o'er his downy cheek, 
O'erwhelm'd in fight and captive to the Greek, 1 
He linger'd there, till peace dissolv'd his chains ; 
Oh ! who could, ev'n in bondage, tread the plains 
Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise 
Kindling within him ? who, with heart and eyes, 
Could walk where liberty had been, nor see 
The shining foot-prints of her Deity, 
Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air 
Which mutely told her spirit had been there j v 
Not he, that youthful warrior, — no, too well 
For his soul's quiet work'd th' awakening spell ; 
And now, returning to his own dear land, 
Full of those dreams of good, that, vainly grand, 
Haunt the young heart ; — proud views of human- kind 
Of men to Gods exalted and refin'd ; — 
False views, like that horizon's fair' deceit, 
Where earth and heav'n but seem, alas, to meet !— 
Soon as he heard an Arm Divine was rais'd 
To right the nations, and beheld, emblaz'd 
On the white flag Mokanna's host unfurl'd, 
Those words of sunshine, " Freedom to the World,' 
At once his faith, his sword, his soul obey'd 
Th' inspiring summons ; every chosen blade, 
That fought beneath that banner's sacred text, 
Seem'd doubly edg'd, for this world and the next ; 
And ne'er did Faith with her smooth bandage bind 
Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind, 
In virtue's cause ; — never was soul inspir'd 
With livelier trust in what it most desir'd, 
Than his, th' enthusiast there, wito, kneeling, pale 
With pious awe, before that Silver Veil, 
Believes the form, to which he bends his knee, 
Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free 
This fetter'd world from every bond and stain, 
And bring its primal glories back again ! 

Low as young Azim knelt, that motley crowd 
Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and bow'd, 
With shouts of " Alla !" echoing long and loud ; 
Wliile high in air, above the Prophet's head, 
Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam spread, 
Wav'd, like the wings of the white birds that fan 
The flying throne of star-taught Soli man ! 
Then thus he spoke: — "Stranger, though new the 

frame 
Thy soul inhabits now, I've track'd its flame 
For many an age, 2 in every chance and change 
Of that existence, through whose varied range* — 
As through a torch-race, where, from hand to hand 
The flying youths transmit their shining brand, — 
From frame to frame the unextinguish'd soul 
Rapidly passes, till it reach the goal ! 

"Nor think 'tis only the gross Spirits, warm'd 
With duskier fire and for earth's medium form'd, 



1 In the war of the Caliph Mohadi against the Bmpresf 
Irene : for an account of which, see Gibbon, vol. x. 

2 The transmigration of souls was one of his doctrines 
see D 1 Herbelot. 



30 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



That run this course ;— Beings, the most divine, 

Thus deign through dark mortality to shine. 

Such was the Essence that in Adam dwelt, 

To which all Heav'n, except the Proud One, knelt ;' 

Such the refin'd Intelligence that glow'd 

In Moussa's frame ; — and, thence descending, flow'd 

Through many a prophet's breast ; — in Issa 2 shone, 

And in Mohammed burn'd ; till, hastening on, 

(As a bright river that, from fall to fall 

In many a maze descending, bright through all, 

Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past, 

In one full lake of light it rests at last !) 

That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free 

From lapse or shadow, centres all in me !" 

Again, throughout th' assembly at these words, 
Thousands of voices rung; the warrior's swords 
Were pointed up to heav'n ; a sudden wind 
In th' open banners play'd, and from behind 
Those Persian hangings, that but ill could screen 
The Haram's loveliness, white hands were seen 
Waving embroider'd scarves, whose motion gave 
A perfume forth ; — like those the Houris wave 
When beckoning to their bowers the' Immortal Brave. 

" But these," pursued the Chief, " are truths sublime, 
That claim a holier mood and calmer time 
Than eartb allows us now ; — this sword must first 
The darkling prison-house of mankind burst, 
Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in 
Her wakening day-light on a world of sin ! 
But then, celestial warriors, then, when all 
Earth's shrines and thrones before our banner fall ; 
When the glad slave shall at these feet lay down 
His broken chain, the tyrant Lord his crown, 
The priest his book, the conqueror his wreath, 
And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath 
Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze 
That whole dark pile of human mockeries ;— 
Then shall the reign of Mind commence on earth, 
And starting fresh, as from a second birth, 
Man, in the sunshine of the world's new spring, 
Shall walk transparent, like some holy thing ! 
Then, too, your Prophet from his angel brow 
Shall cast the Veil that hides its splendours now, 
And gladden'd Earth shall, through her wide expanse, 
Bask in the glories of this countenance ! 
For thee, young warrior, welcome ! — thou hast yet 
Some task to learn, some frailties to forget, 
Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can wave ; — 
But, once my own, mine all till in the grave !" 
The pomp is at an end,— the crowds are gone- 
Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone 
Of that deep voice, which thrill'd like Alla's own ! 
The young all dazzled by the plumes and lances, 
The glittering throne,and Haram's half-caught glances; 
The old deep pondering on the promis'd reign 
Of peace and truth; and all the female train 
Ready to risk their eyes, could they but gaze 
A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze ! 

But there was one among the chosen maids 
Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken shades, — 



1 " And when we said unto the Angels, Worship Adam, 
Ihey all worshipped him except Eblis, (I ucifer,) who re- 
fused." The Koran, chap. ii. 

2 Jesus. 



One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day 

Has been like death ; — you saw her pale dis.TL^ 

Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst 

Of exclamation from her lips, when first 

She saw that youth, too well, too dearly knowi 

Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne. 

Ah Zelica ! there was a time, when bliss 
Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his; 
When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air 
In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest prayer ' 
When round him hung such a perpetual spell, 
Whate'er he did, none ever did so well. 
Too happy days ! when, if he touch'd a flower 
Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour ; 
When thou didst study him, till every tone 
And gesture and dear look became thy own,— 
Thy voice like his, the changes of his face 
In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, 
Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught 
With twice th' serial sweetness it had brought : 
Yet now he comes — brighter than even he 
E'er beam'd before, — but ah ! not bright for thee* 
No — dread, unlook'd for, like a visitant 
From th' other world, he comes as if to haunt 
Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight, 
Long lost to all but memory's aching sight : — 
Sad dreams ! as when the Spirit of our Youth 
Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth 
And innocence once ours, and leads us back, 
In mournful mockery, o'er the shining track 
Of our young life, and points out every ray 
Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way ! 

Once happy pair ! — in proud Bokhara's groveo. 
Who had not heard of their first youthful loves ? 
Born by that ancient flood, 1 which from its spring 
In the Dark Mountains swiftly wandering, 
Enrich'd by every pilgrim brook that shines . 

With relics from Bucharia's ruby mines, 
And, lending to the Caspian half its strength, 
In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length ; — 
There, on the banks of that bright river born, 
The flowers, that hung above its wave at morn, 
Bless'd not the waters, as they murmur'd by, 
With holier scent and lustre, than the sigh 
And virgin glance of first affection cast 
Upon their youth's smooth current, as it pass'd ! 
But war disturb'd this vision — far away 
From her fond eyes, summon'd to join th' array . 
Of Persia's warriors on the hills of Thrace, 
The youth exchang'd his sylvan dwelling-place 
For the rude tent and war-field's deathful clash ;— • 
His Zelica's sweet glances for the flash 
Of Grecian wild-fire, — and love's gentle chains 
For bleeding bondage on Byzantium's plains. 

Month after month, in widowhood of soul 
Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll 
Their suns away — but, ah ! how cold and dim 
E'en summer suns, when not beheld with him ! 
From time to time ill-omen'd rumours came, 
(Like spirit tongues, muttering the sick man's name 



1 The Amoo, which rises in the Belur Tag, or Dark 
Mountains, and running nearly from east to west, splits into 
two branches, one of which falls into the Caspian sea, ana 
the other into Aral Nahr, or the Lake of Eaglts. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



3] 



Just ere he dies,) — at length those sounds of dread 
Fell withering on her soul, " Azim is dead !" 
Oli grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate 
First leaves the young heart lone and desolate 
In the wide world, without that only tie 
For which it lov'd to live or fear'd to die ; — 
Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken 
Since the sad day its master-chord was broken ! 

Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such 
Ev'n reason blighted sunk beneath its touch ; 
And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose 
Above the first dead pressure of its woes. 
Though health and bloom return' d, the delicate chain 
Of thought, once' tangled, never clear'd again. 
Warm, lively, soft as in youth's happiest day, 
The mind was still all there, but turn'd astray ;— 
A wandering bark, upon whose pathway shone 
All stars of heav'n, except the guiding one ! 
Again she smil'd, nay, much and brightly smil'd, 
But 'twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild ; 
And when she sung to her lute's touching strain, 
'Twas like the notes, half extacy, half pain, 
The bulbul 1 utters, e'er her soul depart, 
When, vanquish'd by some minstrel's powerful art, 
She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her 

heart ! 
Such was the mood in which that mission found 
Young Zelica, — that mission, which around 
The Eastern world, in every region blest 
With woman's smile, sought out its loveliest, 
To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes, 
Which the Veil'd Prophet destin'd for the skies ! — 
And such quick welcome as a spark receives 
Dropp'd on a bed of autumn's wither'd leaves, 
Did every tale of tnese enthusiasts find 
In the wild maiden's sorrow-blighted mind. 
All fire at once the madd'ning zeal she caught ;— 
Elect of Paradise ! blest, rapturous thought ; 
Predestin'd bride, in heaven's eternal dome, 
Of some brave youth — ha ! durst they say " of some ?" 
No — of the one, one only object trac'd 
In her heart's core too deep to be effac'd ; 
The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twin'd 
With ev'ry broken link of her lost mind ; 
Whose image lives, though Reason's self be wreck' d, 
Safe 'mid the ruins of her intellect ! 

Alas, poor Zelica ! it needed all 
The fantasy, which held thy mind in thrall, 
To see in that gay Haram's glowing maids 
A sainted colony for Eden's shades ; 
Or dream that he, — of whose unholy flame 
Thou wert too soon the victim, — shining came 
From Paradise, to people its pure sphere 
With souls like thine, which he hath ruin'd here ! 
No — had not Reason's light totally set, 
And left thee dark, thou had'st an amulet 
In the lov'd image, graven on thy heart, 
Which would have sav'd thee from the tempter's art, 
And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath, 
That purity, whose fading is love's death ! — 
But lost, inflam'd, —a restless zeal took place 
Of the mild virgin's* still and feminine grace ; — 
First of the Prophet's favourites, proudly first 
In zeal and charms, — too well th' Impostor nurs'd 



1 The Nightingale, 



Her soul's delirium, in whose active frame, 
Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant flame, 
He saw more potent sorceries to bind 
To his dark yoke u;e spirits of mankind, 
More subtle chains than hell itself e'er twin'd. 
No art was spar'd, no witchery; — oil the skill 
His demons taught him was employ'd ic fill 
Her mind with gloom and extacy by turns — 
That gloom, through which Frenzy but fiercer burns 
That extacy, which from the depth of sadness 
Glares like the maniac's moon,whose fight is madness 

'Twas from a brilliant banquet, where the sound 
Of poesy and music breath'd around, 
Together picturing to her mind and ear 
The glories of that heav'n, her destin'd sphere, 
Where all was pure, where every stain that lay 
Upon the spirit's fight should pass away, 
And, realizing more than youthful love 
E'er wish'd or dream'd, she should for ever rove 
Through fields of fragrance by her Azim's side, 
His own bless'd, purified, eternal bride ! — 
'Twas from a scene, a witching trance like this, 
He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, 
To the dim charnel-house ; — through all its steams 
Of damp and death, led only by those gleams 
Which foul Corruption fights, as with design 
To show the gay and proud she too can shine !— 
And, passing on through upright ranks of dead, 
Which to the maiden, doubly craz'd by dread, 
Seem'd,through the bluish death-light round them cast, 
To move their lips in mutterings as she pass'd — 
There, in that awful place, when each had quaff'u 
And pledg'd in silence such a fearful draught, 
Such — oh ! the look and taste of that red bowl 
Will haunt her till she dies — he bound her soul 
By a dark oath, in hell's own language fram'd, 
Never, while earth his mystic presence claim'd, 
While the blue arch of day hung o'er them both, 
Never, by that all- imprecating oath, 
In joy or sorrow from his side to sever. — 
She swore, and the wide charnel echoed, " Never 
never '" 

From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given 
To him and — she believ'd, lost maid ! — to Heaven \ 
Her brain, her heart, her passions all inflam'd, 
How proud she stood, when in full Haram nam'd 
The Priestess of the Faith ! — how flash'd her eyes 
With light, alas ! that was not of the skies, 
When round, in trances only less than hers, 
She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers 
Well might Mokanna think that form alone 
Had spells enough to make the world his own : — 
Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit's play 
Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray, 
When from its stem the small bird wings away ! 
Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smil'd, 
The soul was lost ; and blushes, swift and wild 
As are the momentary meteors sent 
Across th' uncalm, but beauteous firmament. 
And then her look — oh ! where's the heart so wise, 
Could unbewilder'd meet those matchless eyes ? 
Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal, 
Like those of angels, just before their fall ; 
Now shadow'd with the shames of earth — now cros! 
By glimpses of the heaven her heart had lost ; 



32 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



In every glance there broke without control, 
The flashes of a bright but troubled soul, 
Whe v e sensibility still wildly play'd, 
Like lightning, round the ruins i\. had made ! 

And such was rjw young Zelica — so chang'd 
From her who, some years since, delighted rang'd 
The almond groves, that shade Bokhara's tide, 
All life and bliss, with Azim by her side ! 
So alter'd was she now, this festal day, 
When, 'mid the proud Divan's dazzling array, 
The vision of that Youth, whom she had lov'd, 
And wept as dead, before her breath'd and mov'd ; — 
When — bright, she thought, as if from Eden's track 
But half-way trodden, he had wander'd back 
Again to earth, glistening with Eden's light — 
Her beauteous Azim shone before her sight. 

Oh Reason ! who shall say what spells renew, 
When least we look for it, thy broken clew ! 
Through what small vistas o'er the darken'd brain 
Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again ; 
And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win 
Unhop'd-for entrance through some friend within, 
One clear idea, waken'd in the breast 
By Memory's magic, lets in all the rest ! 
Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee ! 
But, though light came, it came but partially; 
Enough to show the maze, in which thy sense 
Wander'd about, — but not to guide it thence ; 
Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave, 
But not to point the harbour which might save. 
Hours of delight and peace, long left behind, 
With that dear form came rushing o'er her mind ; 
But oh ! to think how deep her soul had gone 
In tihame and falsehood since those moments shone 
And, then, her oath— there madness lay again, 
And, shuddering, back she sunk into her chain 
Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee 
From light, whose every glimpse was agony ! 
Yet, one relief this glance of former years 
Brought, mingled with its pain — tears, floods of tears. 
Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills 
Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills, 
And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost, 
Through valleys where their flow had long been lost ! 

Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame 
Trembled with horror, when the summons came 
(A summons proud and rare, which all but she, 
And she, till now, had heard with extacy,) 
To meet Mokanna at his place of prayer, 
A garden oratory, cool and fair, 
By the stream's side, where still at close of day 
The Prophet of the Veil retir'd to pray ; 
Sometimes alone — but, oftener far, with one, 
One chosen nymph to share his orison. 

Of late none found such favour in his sight 
A.S the young Priestess ; and though, since that night 
When the death-caverns echo'd every tone 
|)f the dire oath that made her all his own, 
Th' Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize, 
Had, more than once, thrown off his soul's disguise, 
And utter' d such unheav'nly, monstrous tilings, 
As ev'n across the desperate wanderings 
Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, 
Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt ; — 



Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, 
The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow 
Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye conceal'd 
Would soon, proud triumph ! be to her reveal'd, 
To her alone ; — and then the hope most dear, 
Most wild of all, that her transgression here 
Was but a passage through earth's grosser fire, 
From which the spirit would at last aspire, 
Ev'n purer than before, — as perfumes rise 
Through flame and smoke, most welcome to tin 

skies — 
And that when Azim's fond, divine embrace 
Should circle her m heav'n, no darkening trace 
Would on that bosom he once lov'd remain, 
But all be bright, be pure, be his again ! — 
These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit 
Had chain'd her soul beneath the tempter's feet, 
And made her think ev'n damning falsehood sweet.' 
But now that Shape which had appall'd her view, 
That Semblance — oh how terrible, if true !— 
Which came across her frenzy's full career 
With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe, 
As when in northern seas, at midnight dark, 
An isle of ice encounters some swift bark, 
And, startling all its wretches from their sleep, 
By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep ; — 
So came that shock not frenzy's self could bear, 
And waking up each long-lull'd image there, 
But check'd her headlong soul, to sink it in despair ! 

Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk, 
She now went slowly to that small kiosk, 
Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, 
Mokanna waited her — too wrapt in dreams 
Of the fair-ripening future's rich success, 
To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, 
That sat upon his victim's downcast brow, 
Or mark how slow her step, how alter'd now 
From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound 
Came like a spirit's o'er th' unechoing ground, — 
From that wild Zelica, whose every glance 
Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance ! 

Upon his couch the Veiled Mokanna lay, 
While lamps around — not such as lend their ray 
Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray 
In holy Koom, 1 or Mecca's dim arcades, — 
But brilliant, soft, such light as lovely maids 
Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow 
Upon his mystic Veil's white glittering flow. 
Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer, 
Which the world fondly thought he mused on theie 
Stood vases, fill'd with KishmeeV golden wine, 
And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine; 
Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draught 
Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff'd, 
Like Zemzem's Spring of Holiness, 3 had power 
To freshen the soul's virtues into flower ! 
And still he drank and ponder' d — nor could see 
Th' approaching maid, so deep his reverie ; 



1 The cities of Com [or Koom] and Cashan aro full of 
mosques, mausoleums, and sepulchres of the descendants 
of Ali, the Saints of Persia. Chardin. 

2 An Island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white 
\vine. 

3 The miraculous well at Mecca; so called, says Sale, 
from the murmuring of its waters. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



33 



At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke 
^From Eclis at the Fall of Man, he spoke :— 
/" Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given, 
Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven ; 
God's images, 'forsooth ! — such gods as he 
Whom India serves, the monkey deity;' — 
Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay, 
To whom, if Lucifer, as grandams say, 
Refus'd, though at the forfeit of Heaven's light, 
To bend in worship, Lucifer was right ! — 
Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck 
Of your foul race, and without fear or check, 
Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, 
My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's name ! 
Soon, at the head of myriads, blind ani fierce 
As hooded falcons, through the universe 
I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way, * 

Weak min my instrument, curst man my prey \^J 

" Ye w ise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull way on 
By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, 
Like superstitious thieves, who think the light 
From dead men's marrow guides them best at night 2 ^- 
Ye shall have honours— wealth,— yes, sages, yes— 
I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness ; 
Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere, 
But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here. 
How 1 shad laugh when trumpeted along, 
In lying speech, and still more lying song, 
By these lea-n'd slaves, the meanest of the throng; 
Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small, 
A sceptre's puny point can wield it all ! 

" Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, 
Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds ; 
Who, bolder ev'n than Nemrod, think to rise 
By nonsense heap'd on nonsense to the skies ; 
Ye shall have miracles, aye, sound ones too, 
Seen, heard, attested, every thing — but true. 
Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek 
One grace of meaning for the things they speak ; 
Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood 
For truths too heavenly to be understood ; 
And your state priests, sole venders of the lore 
That works salvation ; — as on Ava's shore, 
Where none but priests are privileg'd to trade 
In that best marble of which gods are made ; 3 — 
They shall have mysteries — aye, precious stuff 
For knaves to thrive by — mysteries enough ; 
Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave, 
Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, 
While craftier feign belief, till they believe. 
A Heav'n too ye must have, ye lords of dust,— 
A splendid Paradise — pure souls, ye must : 
That Prophet ill sustains his holy call, 
Who finds not heav'ns to suit the tastes of all ; 
Houns for boys, omniscience for sages, 
And wings and glories for all ranks and ages. 
Vain things ! — as lust or vanity inspires, 
The heav'n of each is but what each desires, 
And, soul or sense, whate'er the object be, 
Man world be man to all eternity ! 

1 Tue god Hannaman. 

2 A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, called the 
Hand of Glory, the candle for which was made of the fat 
of a dend malefactor. This, however, was rather a western 
than an eastern superstition. 

3 Symes's Ava, voU>ii. p. 376. 



So let him — Eblis ! grant this crowning curse, 
But keep him what he is, no hell were worse." — 

" Oh my lost soul !" exclaim'd the shuddering maidj 
Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said, — 
Mokanna started — not abash'd, afraid, — 
He knew no more of fear than one who dwells 
Beneath the tropics knows of icicles ! 
But, in those dismal words that reach'd his ear, 
" Oh my lost soul !" there was a sound so drear, 
So like that voice, among the sinful dead, 
In which the legend o'er Hell's gate is read, 
That, new as 'twas from her, whom nought could dim 
Or sink till now, it startled even him. .> 

" Ha, my fair Priestess !" — thus, with ready wile, 
Th' impostor turn'd to greet her — " thou, whose smile 
Hath inspiration in its rosy beam 
Beyond th' enthusiast's hope or prophet's dream ! 
Light of the Faith ! who twin'st religion's zeal 
So close with love's, men know not which they feel, 
Nor which to sigh for in their trance of heart, 
The Heav'n thou preachest, or the Heav'n thou art ! 
What should I be without thee ? without thee 
How dull were power, how joyless victory ! 
Though borne by angels, if that smile of thine 
Bless'd not my banner, 'twere but half divine. 
But — why so mournful, child ? those eyes, that shone 
All life, last night — what ! — is their glory gone ? 
Come, come — this morn's fatigue hath made them pale, 
They want rekindling — suns themselves would fail, 
Did not their comets bring, as I to thee, 
From Light's own fount, supplies of brilliancy ! 
Thou seest this cup — no juice of earth is here, 
But the pure waters of that upper sphere, 
Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow, 
Catching the gem's bright colour, as they go. 
Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns — 
Nay, drink — in every drop life's essence burns ; 
'Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light — 
Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night : 
There is a youth — why start ? — thou saw'st him then i 
Look'd he not nobly ? such the god-like men 
Thou'lt have to woo thee in the bowers above ; — 
Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love, 
Too rul'd by that cold enemy of bliss 
The world calls Virtue — we must conquer this — 
Nay, shrink not, pretty sage ; 'tis not for thee 
To scan the mazes of Heav'n's mystery. 
The steel must pass through fire, ere it can yield 
Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield. 
This very night I mean to try the art 
Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart. 
All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit, 
Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite, 
Shall tempt the boy ; — young Mirzala's blue eyes, 
Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies ; 
Arouya's cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun, 
And lips, that, like the seal of Solomon, 
Have magic in their pressure ; Zeba's lute, 
And Lilla's dancing feet, that gleam and shoot 
Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the deep ! — 
All shall combine their witching powers to steep 
My convert's spirit in that softening trance, 
From which to Heav'n is but the next advance f 
That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast, 
On which Religion stamps her image best. 



34 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



But hear me, Priestess ! — thougn each nymph of these 
Hath some peculiar practised power to please, 
Some glance or step, which, at the mirror tried, 
First charms herself, then all the world beside ; 
There still wants one to make the victory sure, 
One, who in every look joins every lure ; 
Through whom all beauty's beams concenter'd pass, 
Dazzling and warm, as through love's burning-glass ; 
Whose gentle lips persuade without a word, 
Whose words, ev'n when unmeaning, are ador'd, 
Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine, 
Which our faith takes for granted are divine ! 
Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light, 
To crown the rich temptations of to-night ; 
Such the refined enchantress that must be 
This Hero's vanquisher, — and thou art she !" 

With her hands clasp'd, her lips apart and pale, 
The maid had stood, gazing upon the Veil 
From whence these words, like south-winds through 

a fence 
Of Kerzrah flow'rs, came filled with pestilence r 1 
So boldly utter'd too ! as if all dread 
Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled, 
And the wretch felt assur'd, that once plung'd in, 
Her woman's soul would know no pause in sin ! 

At first, though mute she listen'd, like a dream 
Seem'd all he said ; nor could her mind, whose beam 
As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme. 
But when, at length, he utter'd "Thou art she !" 
All flash'd at once, and, shrieking piteously, 
u Oh not for worlds !" she cried — " Great God ! to 

whom 
I once knelt innocent, is this my doom ? 
Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly bliss, 
My purity, my pride, then come to this, — 
To live, the wanton of a fiend ! to be 
The pander of his guilt — oh, infamy ! 
And sunk, myself, as low as hell can steep 
In its hot flood, drag others down as deep ! 
Others ? — ha ! yes — that youth who came to-day — 
Not him I lov'd — not him — oh ! do but say, 
But swear to me chis moment 'tis not he, 
And I will serve, dark fiend ! will worship, even thee!" 

u Beware, young raving thing ! — in time beware,' 
Nor utter what I cannot, must not bear 
Ev'n from thy lips. Go — try thy lute, thy voice ; 
The boy must feel their magic — I rejoice 
To see those fires, no matter whence they rise, 
Once more illuming my fair Priestess' eyes ; 
And should the youth, whom soon those eyes shall 

warm, 
Indeed resemble thy dead lover's form, 
So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom, 
As one warm lover, full of life and bioom, 
Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb. — 
Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet ! those eyes were made 
For love, not anger — I must be obey'd." 

' Obey'd ! — 'tis well — yes, I deserve it all — 
On me, on me Heav'n's vengeance cannot fall 
Too heavily — but Azim, brave and true, 
And beautiful — must he be ruin'd too ? 



1 "It is commonly said in Persia, that if a man breathe 
m the hot south-wind, which in June or July passes over 
mat fiower, [the Kerzerah,] it will kill him." Thevenot. 



Must he too, glorious as he is, be driven 

A renegade like me from Love and Heaven ? 

Like me ? — weak wretch, I wrong him — not like me ; 

No — he's all truth, and strength, and purity ! 

Fill up your madd'ning hell-cup to the brim, 

Its witchery, fiends, will have no charm for him 

Let loose your glowing wantons from their bowera 

He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers ! 

Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reign 

Pure as when first we met, without a stain ! 

Though ruin'd — lost — my memory, like a charm 

Left by the dead, still keeps his soul from harm. 

Oh ! never let him know how deep the brow 

He kiss'd at parting is dishonour'd now — 

Ne'er tell him how debas'd, how sunk is she, 

Whom once he lov'd — once ! — still loves dotingly . 

Thou laugh'st, tormentor, — what ! — thoul't brand my 

name? 
Do, do — in vain — he'll not believe my shame — 
He thinks me true, that nought beneath God's sky 
Could tempt or change me, and — so once thought I 
But this is past — though worse than death my lot, 
Than hell — 'tis nothing, while he knows it not. 
Far off to some benighted land I'll fly, 
Where sunbeam ne'er shall enter till I die ; 
Where none will ask the lost one whence she came. 
But I may fade and fall without a name ! 
And thou — curst man or fiend, whate'er thou art, 
Who found'st this burning plague-spot in my heart, 
And spread's! it — oh, so quick ! — thro' soul and frame ' 
With more than demon's art, till I became 
A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame ! 

If when I'm gone " 

" Hold, fearless maniac, hold, 
Nor tempt my rage — by Heav'n, not half so bold 
The puny bird that dares with teazing hum 
Within the crocodile's stretch'd jaws to come. 1 — 
And so thou'lt fly, forsooth ? — what, give up all 
Thy chaste dominions in the Haram hall, 
Where now to Love, and now to Alla given, 
Half mistress and half saint, thou hang'st as even 
As doth Medina's tomb, 'twixt hell and heaven ! 
Thou'lt fly ? — as easily may reptiles run, 
The gaunt snake once hath fix'd his eyes upon ; 
As easily, when caught, the prey may be 
Pluck'd from his loving folds, as thou from me. 
No, no, 'tis fix'd — let good or ill betide, 
Thou'rt mine till death, till death Mokanna's bride . 
Hast thou forgot thy oath?" — 

At this dread word 
The maid, Avhose spirit his rude taunts had stirr'd 
Through all its depths, and rous'd an anger there, 
That burst and lighten'd ev'n through her despair !— 
Shrunk back, as if a blight were in the breath 
That spoke that word, and stagger'd, pale as death. 

Yes, my sworn bride, let others seek in bowers 
The bridal place — the charnel vault was ours ! 
Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me 
Rose the rich steams of sweet -mortality ; — 
Gay flickering death-lights shone while we were wed, 
And, for our guests, a row of goodly dead, 



1 The ancient story concerning the Trochilus, or hum- 
ming bird, entering with impunity into the mouth of the 
crocodile, is firmly believed at Java. Barrow's CocHitr 
China. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



35 



(Immortal spirits in their time, no doubt,) 
From reeking shrouds, upon the rite Jook'd out! 
That oath thou heardst more lips than thine repeat- 
That cup — thou shudderest, lady — was it sweet ? 
That cup we pledg'd, the enamel's choicest wine, 
Hath bound thee — aye — body and soul all mine; 
Bound thee by chains, that, whether blest or curst 
No matter now, not hell itself shall burst ! — 
Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay, 
Look wild, look — any thing but sad ; — yet stay — 
One moment more — from what this night hath pass'd, 
I see that thou know'st me, know'st me well at last. 
Ha ! ha ! and so, fond thing, thou thought'st all true, 
And that I love mankind ! — I do, I do — 
As victims, love them ; as the sea-dog doats 
Upon the small sweet fry that round him floats ; 
Or as the Nile-bird loves the slime that gives 
That rank and venomous food on which she lives I 1 
And, now thou see'st my souVs angelic hue, 
'Tis time those features were uncurtain'd too; — 
This brow, whose light — oh, rare celestial light ! 
Hath been reserv'd to bless thy favour' d sight ! 
These "dazzling eyes, before whose shrouded might 
Thou «t seen immortal man kneel down and quake — 
Would that they were Heaven's lightnings for his sake! 
But turn and look — then wonder, if thou wilt, 
That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt, 
Upon the hand, whose mischief or whose mirth 
Sent me thus maim'd and monstrous upon earth ; 
And on that race who, though more vile they be 
Than mowing apes, are demt-gods to me ! 
Here, judge, if Hell with all its power to damn, 
Can add one curse to the foul thing I am !" — 

He rais'd his veil — the Maid turn'd slowly round, 
Look'd at him — shriek'd— and sunk upon the ground. 



On their arrival, next night, at the place of encamp- 
ment, they were surprised and delighted to find the 
groves all round illuminated ; some artists of Yam- 
tcheou having been sent on previously for the pur- 
pose On each side of the green alley, which led to 
the Royal Pavilion, artificial sceneries of bamboo- 
work were erected, representing arches, minarets, 
and ttwers, from which hung thousands of silken 
lanterns, painted by the most delicate pencils of Can- 
ton. Nothing could be more beautiful than the leaves 
of the mango-trees and acacias, shining in the light 
of the bamboo scenery, which shed a lustre round as 
6oft as that of the nights of Peristan. 

Lalla Rookh, however, who was too much occu- 
pied by the sad story of Zelica and her lover, to 
give a thought to any thing else, except, perhaps, him 
who related it, hurried on through this scene of splen- 
dour to her pavilion, — greatly to the mortification of 
the poor artists of Yamtcheou, — and was followed 
with equal rapidity by the great Chamberlain, cursing, 
as he went, that ancient Mandarin, whose parental 
anxiety in lighting up the shores of the lake, where 
his beloved daughter had wandered and been lost, 
was the origin of these fantastic Chinese illuminations. 
Without a moment's delay young Feramorz was 



1 Circum easdem ripas [Nili, viz.] ales est Ibis. Ea ser- 
pentium populatur ova, gratissimamque ex his nidis escam 
guis refcn. — Solinus. 



introduced, and Fadladeen, who could never make 
up his mind as to the merits of a poet, till he knew 
the religious sect to which he belonged, was about 
to ask him whether he was a Shia or a Sooni, when 
Lalla Rookh impatiently clapped her hands for 
silence, and the youth, being seated upon the musnud 
near her, proceeded : — 

Prepare thy soul, young Azim ! thou hast brav'd 
The bands of Greece, still mighty, though enslavM, 
Hast fae'd her phalanx, arm d with all its fame, 
Her Macedonian pikes and globes of flame ; 
All this hast fronted, with firm heart and brow, 
But a more perilous trial waits thee now, — 
Woman's bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes 
From every land where woman smiles or sighs , 
Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise 
His black or azure banner in their blaze ; 
And each sweet mode of warfare, from the flash 
That lightens boldly through the shadowy lash, 
To the sly, stealing splendours, almost hid, 
Like swords half-sheath d, beneath the downcast lid 
Such, Azim, is the lovely, luminous host 
Now led against thee ; and, let conquerors boast 
Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms 
A young, warm spirit against beauty's charms, 
Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall, 
Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all. 

Now, through the Harem chambers, moving lights 
And busy shapes proclaim the toilet s rites ; — 
From room to room the ready handmaids hie, 
Some skill d to wreathe the turban tastefully, 
Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade, 
O er the warm blushes of the youthful maid, 
Who, if between the folds but one eye shone, 
Like Seba's Queen could vanquish with that onei 
While some bring leaves of Henna to imbue 
The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue, 2 
So bright, that in the mirror s depth they seem 
Like tips of coral branches in the stream ; 
And others mix the Kohol's jetty dye, 
To give that long, dark languish to the eye, 3 
Which makes the maids, whom kings are proud to cull 
From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful. 

All is in motion ; rings, and plumes, and pearls 
Are shining every where ; — some younger girls 
Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds, 
To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads ; 
Gay creatures ! sweet, though mournful tis to seo 
How each prefers a garland from that tree 
Which brings to mind her childhood s innocent day, 
And the dear fields and friendships far away. 
The maid of India, blest again to hold 
In her full lap the Chamoac's leaves of gold,* 
Thinks of the time, when, by the Ganges' flood, 
Her little play-mates scatter'd many a bud 



1 "Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes. 
— Sol. Song. 

2 "They tinged the ends of her fingers scarlet with Hen- 
na, so that they resembled branches of coral." — Story oj 
Prince Futtun in Bahardanush. 

3 " The women blacken the inside of their eyelids with 
a powder named the black Cohol." — Russel. 

4 " The appearance of the blossoms of the gold-colonred 
Campac on the black hair of the Indian women, has sup- 
plied the Sanscrit Poets with many elegant allusions. — See 
Asiatic Researches vol. iv. 



36 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam 
Just dripping from the consecrated stream ; 
While the young Arab, haunted by the smell 
Of her own mountain-flowers, as by a spell, — 
The sweet Elcaya, 1 and that courteous tree 
Which bows to all who seek its canopy 2 — 
Sees call'd up round her by these magic scents, 
The well, the camels, and her father's tents ; 
Sighs for the home she left with little pain, 
And wishes e'en its sorrows back again ! 

Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, 
Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls ■ 
Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound 
From many a jasper fount, is heard around, 
Young Azim roams bewilder'd, — nor can guess 
What means this maze of light and loneliness. 
Here the way leads, o'er tesselated floors, 
Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors, 
Where, rang'd in cassolets and silver urns, 
Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns ; 
And spicy rods, such as illume at night 
The bowers of Tibet, 3 send forth odorous light, 
Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road 
For some pure Spirit to its blest abode ! — 
And here, at once, the glittering saloon 
Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon ; 
Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays 
In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays 
High as th' enamell'd cupola which towers 
All rich v/ith arabesques of gold and flowers ; 
And the mosaic floor beneath shines through 
The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew, 
Like the wet, glistening shells, of every dye, 
That on the margin of the Red Sea lie. 

Here too he traces the kind visitings 
Of woman's love in those fair, living things 
Of land and wave, whose fate, — in bondage thrown 
For their weak loveliness — is like her own ! 
On one side, gleaming with a sudden grace 
Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase 
In which it undulates, small fishes shine, 
Like golden ingots from a fairy mine ; 
While, on the other, lattic'd lightly in 
With odoriferous woods of Camorin, 4 
Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen ;— 
Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between 
The crimson blossoms of the coral tree,* 
In the warm isles of India's sunny sea : 
Mecca's blue sacred pigeon, 6 and the thrush 
Of Indostan, 7 whose holy warblings gush, 



1 " A tree famous for its perfume, and common on the 
hills of Yemen." — Nicbuhr. 

2 Of the genus mimosa, " which droops its branches 
whenever any person approaches it, seeming as if it saluted 
those who retire under its shade." — Niebuhr. 

3 " Cloves are a principal ingredient in the composition 
of the perfumed rods, which men of rank keep constantly 
burning in their presence." — Turner's Tibet. 

4 " ("est d'oii vient le bois d'aloes, que les Arabes appel- 
ant Oud Comari, et celui du sandal, qui s'y trouve en 
grande quantite." — D' Herbelot. 

5 "Thousands of variegated loories visit the coral trees." 

Barrow. 

6 "In Mecca, there are quantities of blue pigeons, which 
none will affright or abuse, much less kill." — Pitt's Account 
oj the Mahometans. 

7 " The Pagoda Thrush is esteemed among the first cho- 
risters of India. It sits perched on the sacred Pagodas, and 
from thence delivers its melodious song." — Pennant's Hin- 
dostaa 



At evening, from the tall pagoda's top ; — 
Those golden birds, that, in the spice-time, drop 
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food 
Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood, 
And those that under Araby's soft sun 
Build their high nests of budding cinnamon ; 2 — 
In short, ail rare and beauteous things that fly 
Through the pure element, here calmly lie 
Sleeping in light, like the green birds 3 that dwell 
In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel ! 

So on through scenes past nil imagining, — 
More like die luxuries of that impious King, 4 
Whom Death's dark x\ngel, with his lightning torch 
Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure's porch, — 
Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent, 
Arm'd with Heaven's sword, for man's enfranchise 

ment — 
Young Azim wander'd, looking sternly round ; 
His simple garb and war-boots' clanking sound, 
But ill according with the pomp and grace 
And silent lull of that voluptuous place ! 

" Is this, then," thought the youth, " is this the way 
To free man's spirit from the deadening sway 
Of worldly sloth ; — to teach him, while he lives, 
To know no bliss but that which virtue gives ; 
And when he dies, to leave his lofty name 
A light, a land-mark on the cliffs of fame ? 
It was not so, land of the generous thought 
And daring deed ! thy godlike sages taught ; 
It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease, 
Thy Freedom nurs'd her sacred energies ; 
Oil ! not beneath th' enfeebling, withering glow 
Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow, 
With which she wreath'd her sword, when she vvoulo 

dare 
Immortal deeds ; but in the bracing air 
Of toil, — of temperance, — of that high, rare, 
Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe 
jLife, health, and lustre into Freedom's wreath ! 
/fwho, that surveys this span of earth we press, 
This speck of life in time's great wilderness, 
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas, 
/The past, the future, two eternities ! 
Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare, 
When he might buiid him a proud temple there, 
A name, that long shall hallow all its space, 
And be each purer soul's high resting-place ? 
But no— it cannot be that one, whom God 
Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's rod, — 
A Prophet of the trurh, whose mission draws 
Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane his cause 
With the world's vulgar pomps , — no, no — I see — 
He thinks me weak — this glare of luxury 
Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze 
Of my young soul ; — shine on, 'twill stand the blaze !" 



1 Birds of Paradise, which, at the nutmeg season, come 
in flights from the southern Isles to India, and " the strength 
of the nutmeg," says Tavernier, " so intoxicates them, that 
they fill dead drunk to the earih." 

2 "That bird which liveth in Arabia, and buildeth its 
nest with cinnamon." — Brown's Vulgar Erro'S. 

3 " The spirits of the martyrs will he lodged in the crops 
of green birds " — Gibbon, vol. ix. p. 421. 

4 Shedad, who made the delicious gardens of Irim, in 
imitation of Paradise, and was destroyed by lightning th» 
first time he attempted to enter them 



LALLA ROOKH. 



31 



So thought the youth , — but, ev'n while he defied 
The witching scene, he felt its witchery glide 
Through every sense. The perfume, breathing round. 
Like a pervading spirit ; — the still sound 
Of falling waters, lulling as the song 
Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng 
Around the fragrant Nilica, and deep 
In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep I 1 
And music too — dear music ! that can touch 
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much— 
Now heard far off, so far as but to seem 
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream ; — 
All was too much for him, too full of bliss : 
The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this. 
Soften'd, he sunk upon a couch, and gave 
His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave 
Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid ; — 
He thought of Zelica, his own dear maid, 
And of the time, when, full of blissful sighs, 
They sat and look'd into each other's eyes, 
Silent and happy — as if God had given 
Nought else worth looking at on this side heaven ! 

" O my lov'd mistress ! whose enchantments still 
A^e with me, round me, wander where I will — 
It is for thee, for thee alone I seek 
The paths of glory — to light up thy cheek 
With warm approval — in that gentle look, 
To read my praise, as in an angels book, 
And think all toils rewarded, when from thee 
I gain a smile, worth immortality ! 
How shall I bear the moment, when restor'd 
To that young heart where I alone am lord, 
Though of such bliss unworthy, — since the best 
Alone deserve to be the happiest ! — 
When from those lips, unbreath'd upon for years, 
I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, 
And find those tears warm as when last they started, 
Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted ! 
Oh my own life ! — why should a single day, 
A moment, keep me from those arms away ?" 

While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze 
Come those deliciojis, dream-like harmonies, 
Each note of which but adds new, downy links 
To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks. 
He turns him tow'rd the sound, and, far away 
Through a long vista, sparkling with the play 
Or countless lamps, — like the rich track which Day 
Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us ; 
So long the path, its light so tremulous ; — 
He sees a group of female forms advance, 
Some chain'd together in the mazy dance 
By fetters, forg'd in the green sunny bowers, 
As they were captives to the King of Flowers ; — 
And some disporting round, unlink'd and free, 
Who seem'd to mock their sister's slavery, 
And round and round them still, in wheeling flight 
Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night ; 
While others walk'd as gracefully along, 
Their feet kept time, the very soul of song 
From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill, 
Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still ! 



1 "My Pundits assure me that the plant before us [the 
Nilica] is their Sephalica, thus named because the bees are 
supposed to sleep on its blossoms." — Sir W. Jones. 



And now they come, now pass before his eye, 

Forms such as Nature moulds, when she wo-uld vie 

With Fancy's pencil, and gave birth to things 

Lovely beyond its fairest picturings ! 

Awhile they dance before him, then divide 

Breaking, like rosy clouds at even-tide 

Around the rich pavilion of the sun, 

Till silently dispersing, one by one, 

Through many a path that from the chamber leads 

To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads, 

Their distant laughter comes upon the wind, 

And but one trembling nymph remains behind — 

Beck'ning them back in vain, for they are gone, 

And she is left; in all that light alone ; 

No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow, 

In its young bashfulness more beauteous now ; 

But a light, golden chain-work round her hair, 

Such as the maids of Yezd and Shiraz wear 

From which, on either side, gracefully hung 

A golden amulet, in th' Arab tongue, 

Engraven o'er with some immortal line 

From holy writ, or bard scarce less divine ; 

While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood, 

Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood, 

Which once or twice, she touch'd with hurried strain, 

Then took her trembling fingers off again 

But when at length a timid glance she stole 

At Azim, the sweet gravity of soul 

She saw through all his features calm'd her fear, 

And, like a half-tam'd antelope, more near, 

Though shrinking still, sbe came ; — then sat her dowii 

Upon a musnud's 1 edge ; and, bolder grown, 

In the pathetic mode of Isfahan 2 

Touch'd a preluding strain, and thus began : — 

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's 3 stream, 
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ; 

In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, 
To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. 

That bower and its music I never forget, 

But oft when alone, in the bloom of tho year, 

I think — is the nightingale singing there yet ? 

Are the roses still bright by the calmBENDEMEER./ 

No, the roses soon wither'd that huag o'ei the wave, 

But some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly 

they shone, 

And a dew was distill'd from their flowers, that gave 

All the fragrance of summer, when summer waja 

gone. 

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, 
An essence that breathes of it many a year ; 

Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes 
Is that bower on the banks of the calmBENDEMEER. 

" Poor maiden !" thought the youth, " if thou wert 
sent, 
With thy soft lute and beauty's blandishment, 
To wake unholy wishes in this heart, 
Or tempt its truth, thou little know'st the art. 



1 Musnuds are cushioned seats, usually reserved for per- 
sons of distinction. 

2 The Persians, like the ancient Greeks, call their musical 
modes or Perdas by the names of different counuies oi 
cities; as, the mode of Isfahan, the mode of Irak, etc 

3 A river which flows near the ruins of Chilminar 



38 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



For though thy lip should sweetly counsel wrong, 
Those vestal eyes would disavow its song. 
But thou hast breath'd such purity, thy lay 
Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day, 
And leads thy soul — if e'er it wander'd thence — 
So gently back to its first innocence, 
That I would sooner stop th' unchained dove, 
When swift returning to its home of love, 
And round its snowy wing new fetters twine, 
i Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine." 

Scarce had this feeling pass'd, when, sparkling 
through 
The gently open'd curtains of light blue 
That veil'd the breezy casement, countless eyes, 
Peeping like stars through the blue evening skies, 
Look'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair 
That sat so still and melancholy there. — 
And now the curtains fly apart, and in 
From the cool air, 'mid showers of jessamine 
Which those without fling after them in play, 
Two lightsome maidens spring, lightsome as they 
Who live in th' air on odours, and around 
The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground, 
Chase one another in a varying dance 
Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance, 
Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit: — 
While she, who sung so gently to the lute 
Her dream of home, steals timidly away, 
Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray, — 
But takes with her from Azim's heart that sigh 
We sometimes give to forms that pass us by 
In the world's crowd, too lovely to remain, 
Creatures of light we never see again ! 

Around the white necks of the nymphs who danc'd, 
Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanc'd 
More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er 
The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore ; ] 
While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall 
Of curls descending, bells as musical 
As those that, on the golden-shafted trees 
Of Eden, shake in the Eternal Breeze, 2 
Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet, 
As 'twere th' ecstatic language of their feet ! 
At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreath'd 
Within each other's arms ; while soft there breath'd 
Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs 
Of moonlight flowers, music that seem'd to rise 
From some still lake, so liquidly it rose ; 
And, as it swell'd again at each faint close, 
The ear could track through all that maze of chords 
And young sweet voices, these impassion'd words : — 

A Spirit there is, whose fragrant sigh 
Is burning now through earth and air ; 

Wnere cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh, 
Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there ! 



1 "To the north of us, [on the coast of the Caspian, near 
Badku] was a mountain which sparkled like diamonds, 
arising from the sea-glass and crystals, with which it 
abounds." — Journey of the Russian Embassador to Per- 
sia, 174ri. 

2 "To which will be added, the sound of the bells, hang- 
; ng on the trees, which will be put in motion by the wind 
proceeding from the throne of God, as often as the blessed 
wish for music." — Sale 



His breath is the soul of flowers like these, 

And his floating eyes — oh ! they resemble 
Blue water-lilies, 1 when the breeze 

Is making the stream around them tremble ! 
Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power ! 

Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss ! 
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, 

And there never was moonlight so sweet asthu 

By the fair and brave, 

Who blushing unite, 
Like the sun and the wave, 

When they meet at night ! 
By the tear that shows 

When passion is nigh, 
As tne rain-drop flows 

From the heat of the sky ! 
By the first love-beat 

Of the youthful heart, 
By the bliss to meet, 

And the pain to part ! 
By all that thou hast 

To mortals given, 
Which — oh ! could it last, 

This earth were heaven ! 

We call thee hither, entrancing Power ! 

Spirit of Love ! Spirit of Bliss ! 
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour ! 

And there never was moonlight so sweet as tlm 



Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stole, 
Spite of himself, too deep into his soul, 
A nd where, 'midst all that the young heart loves most. 
Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost; 
The youth had started up and turn'd away 
From the light nymphs and their luxurious lay, 
To muse upon the pictures that hung round, — 
Bright images, that spoke without a sound, 
And views, like vistas into fairy ground. 
But here again new spells came o'er his sense ;— 
All that the pencil's mute omnipotence 
Could call up into life, of soft and fair, 
Of fond and passionate, was glowing there; 
Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that fine art 
Which paints of pleasure but the purer part ; 
Which knows ev'n Beauty when half-veil'd is best, 
Like her own radiant planet of the west, 
Whose orb when half retir'd looks loveliest ! 
There hung the history of the Genii-King, 
Trac'd through each gay, voluptuous wandering 
With her from Saba's bowers, in whose bright eyes 
He read that to be blest is to be wise ; 2 — 
Here fond Zuleika 3 woos with open arms 
The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms, 
Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone, 
Wishes that heav'n and she could both be won ! 



1 The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and in 
Persia. 

2 For the loves of King Solomon, [who was supposed to 
preside over the whole race of Genii] with Balkis, tho 
Queen of Sheba or Saba, see Z>' Herbelot, and the JVotes 
on the Koran, chap. 2. 

3 The wife of Potiphar, thus named by the Orientals, 
Her adventure with the Patriarch Joseph is the subject ol 
many of their poems and romances 



LALLA ROOKH. 



3S 



And here Mohammed, born for love and guile, 
Forgets the Koran in his Mary's smile ; — 
Then beckons some kind angel from above 
With a new text to consecrate their love I 1 

With rapid step, yet pleas'd and lingering eye, 
))id the youth pass these pictur'd stories by, 
And hasten' d to a casement, where the light 
Of the calm moon came in, and freshly bright 
The fie'ds without were seen, sleeping as still 
As if no life remain'd in breeze or rill. 
Here paus'd he, while the music, now less near, 
Breath d with a holier language on his ear, 
As though the distance and that heavenly ray 
Through which the sounds came floating, took away 
All that had been too earthly in the lay. 
Oh ! could he listen to such sounds unmov'd, 
And by that light — nor dream of her he lov'd? 
Dream on, unconscious boy ! while yet thou may'st ; 
'Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever tas..e. 
Clasp yet awhile her image to thy heart, 
Ere all the light, that made it dear, depart. 
Think of her smiles as when thou saw'st them last, 
Clear, beautiful, by nought of earth o'ercast ; 
Recall her tears, to thee at parting given, 
Pure as they weep, if angels weep, in heaven ! 
Think in her own still bower she waits thee now, 
With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow, 
Yet shrin'd in solitude — thine all, thine only, 
Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely. 
Oh that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy' d, 
Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy'd ! 

The song is hush'd, the laughing nymphs are flown, 
And he is left, musing of bliss, alone ; — 
Alone ? — no, not alone — that heavy sigh, 
That sob of grief, which broke from some one nigh — 
Whose could it be ? — alas ! is misery found 
Here, even here, on this enchanted ground ? 
He turns, and sees a female form, close veil'd, 
Leaning, as if both heart and strength had fail'd, 
Against a pillar near ; — not glittering o'er 
With geim and wreaths, such as the other wore, 
But in that deep-blue melancholy dress, 2 
Bokhara's maidens wear in mindfulness 
Of friend*- or kindred, dead or for away;— 
And such as Zelica had on that day 
He left her, — when, with heart too full to speak, 
He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek. 

A strange emotion stirs within him, — more 
Than mere compassion ever wak'd before ; 
Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she 
Springs forward, as with life's last energy, 
But, swooning in that one convulsive bound, 
Sinks, ere she reach his arms, upon the ground ; — 
Her veil falls otf — her faint hands clasp his knees — 
'Tis she herself! — 'tis Zelica he sees ! 
But, ah, so pale, so chang'd — none but a lover 
Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine discover 
The once ador'd divinity ! ev'n he 
Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly 



1 The particulars of Mahomet's amour with Mary, the 
Coptic girl, in justification of which he added' a new chap- 
*er to the Koran, may be found in Gagnier's JVotes upon 
Abulfeda, >\ 151. 

2 ''JUeej^-blue is their mourning colour." — Hanway. 



Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gaz'd 
Upon those lids, where once such lustre blaz'd, 
Ere he could think she was indeed his own, 
Own darling maid, whom ho so long had known 
In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both; 
Who, e'en when grief was heaviest — when loth 
He left her for the wars — in that worst hour 
Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower, 1 
When darkness brings its weeping glories out, 
And spreads its sighs like frankincense about 1 

" Look up my Zelica — one moment show 
Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know 
Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone, 
But there, at least, shines as it ever shone. 
Come, look upon thy Azim — one dear glance, 
Like those of old, were heaven ! whatever chance 
Hath brought thee here, oh ! 'tv^as a blessed one ! 
There — my sweet lids — they move — that kiss hath run 
Like the first shoot of life through every vein, 
And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again ! 
Oh the delight — now, in this very hour, 
When, had the whole rich world been in my power 
I should have singled out thee, only thee, 
From the whole world's collected treasury — 
To have thee here — to hang thus fondly o'er 
My own best purest Zelica once more !" 

It was indeed the touch of those lov'd lips 
Upon her eyes that chas'd their short eclipse, 
And, gradual as the snow, at heaven's breath, 
Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath. 
Her lids unclos'd, and the bright eyes were seen 
Gazing on his, — not, as they late had been, 
Quick, restless, wild — but mournfully serene ; 
As if to lie, ev'n for that tranc'd minute, 
So near his heart, had consolation in it; 
And thus to wake in his belov'd caress 
Took from her soul one half its wretchedness. 
But when she heard him call her good and pure 
Oh 'twas too much — too dreadful to endure ! 
Shuddering she broke away from his embrace, 
And, hiding with both hands her guilty face, 
Said, in a tone, whose anguish would have rivei 
A heart of very marble, " pure ! — oh ! heaven. — 

That tone — those looks so chang'd — the withering 
blight, 
That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light — 
The dead despondency of those sunk eyes, 
Where once, had he thus met her by surprise, 
He would have seen himself, too happy boy ! 
Reflected in a thousand lights of joy ; 
And then the place, that bright unholy place, 
Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace 
And charm of luxury, as the viper weaves 
Its wily covering of sweet balsam-leaves : 2 — 
All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold 
As death itself; — it needs not to be toid — 
No, no — he sees it all, plain as the brand 
Of burning shame can mark — whate'er the hand, 



1 The sorrowful nyctanthes, which begins to spread it* 
rich odour after sunset. 

2 "Concerning the vipers, which Pliny eays were fra 
quent among the balsaM-trees, I made very particular in, 
quiry: several were brojghtme alive, both "in Yambo axub 
Jidda." — Bruce 



40 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



That could from heav'n and him such brightness sever, 
'Tis done — to heav'n and him she's lost for ever ! 

} It was a dreadful moment; not the tears, / 

k The lingering, lasting misery of years, 

Could match that minute's anguish — all the worst \ 
Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst, 
Broke o'er his soul, and, with one crash of fate, 
Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate ! 

{/ " Oh ! curse me hot," she cried, as wild he toss'd 
His desperate hand tow'rds heav'n — " though I am 

lost, 
Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall; 
No, no — 'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all I 
Nay, doubt me not — though all thy love hath ceas'd — 
I know it hath — yet, yet believe, at least, 
That every spark of reason's light must be 
Quench'd in this brain, ere I could stray from thee ! 
They told me thou wert dead — why, Azim, why, 
Did we not both of us that instant die 
When we were parted 1 — oh, could'st thou but know 
With what a deep devotedness of woe 
I wept thy absence — o'er and o'er again 
Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain, 
And memory, like a drop, that, night and day, 
Falls ^old and ceaseless, wore my heart away ! 
Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home, 
My eyes still turn'd the way thou wert to come, 

» And, all the long, long night of hope and fear, 
Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear — 
Oh God ! thou would'st not wonder, that, at last, 
When every hope was all at once o'ercast, 
When I heard frightful voices round me say 
Azim is dead! — this wretched brain gave way, 
And I became a wreck, at random driven, 
Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven — 
All wild — and ev'n this quenchless love within 
Turn'd to foul fires to light me into sin ! 
Thou pitiest me — I knew thou would'st — that sky 
Hath nought beneath it half so lorn as I. 
The fiend, who lur'd me hither — hist ! come near, 
Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear — 
Told me such things — oh ! with such dev'lish art, 
As would have ruin'd ev'n a holier heart — 
Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere, 
Where, blessed at length, if I but serv'd him here, 
1 should for ever live in thy dear sight, 
And drink from those pure eyes eternal light ! 
Think, think how lost, how madden'd 1 must be, 
To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee ! 
Thou weep'st for me — do, weep — oh ! that I durst 
Kiss off that tear ! but, no— these lips are curst, 
They must not touch thee ; — one divine caress, 
One blessed moment of forgetfulness 
I've had within those arms, and that shall lie, 
Shrin'd in my soul's deep memory till I die! 
The last of joy's last relics here below, 
The one sweet drop in all this waste of woe, 
My heart has treasur'd from affection's spring, 
To soothe and cool its deadly withering ! 
But thou — yes, thou must go — for ever go ; 
This place is not for thee — for thee ! oh no : 
Did I but tell thee half, thy tortur'd brain 
Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again! 
Er ough, that Guilt reigns here — that hearts, once good, 
ISow uinted, chill'd and broken, are his food. 



Enough, that we are parted — that there rolls 
A flood of headlong fate between our souls, 
Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee 
As hell from heav'n, to all eternity 1" — 

"Zelica! Zelica!" the youth exclaim'd, 
In all the tortures of a mind inliam'd 
Almost to madness — " by that sacred Heav'n, 
Where yet, if pray'rs can move, thou' It be forgiven, 
As thou art here — here, in this writhing heart, 
All sinful, wild, and ruin'd as thou art 1 
By the remembrance of our once pure love, 
Which, like a church-yard light, still burns above 
The grave of our lost souls — which guilt in theo 
Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me ! 
1 do conjure, implore thee to fly hence — 
If thou hast yet one spark of innocence, 
Fly with me from this place. " 



blis 



" With thee ! oh bliss 
'Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this. 
What ! take the lost one with thee ? — let her rove 
By thy dear side, as in those days of love, 
When we were both so happy, both so pure — 
Too heavenly dream ! if there's on earth a cure 
For the sunk heart, 'tis this — day after day 
To be the blest companion of thy way ; — 
To hear thy angel eloquence — to see 
Those virtuous eyes for ever turn'd on me ; 
And in their light re-chasten'd silently, 
Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun, 
Grow pure by being purely shone upon ! 
And thou wilt pray for me — 1 know thou wilt — 
At the dim vesper hour, when thoughts of guilt 
Come heaviest o'er the heart, thou'lt lifl thine eyes, 
Full of sweet tears, unto the darkening skies, 
And plead for me with Heav'n, till 1 can dare 
To fix my own weak, sinful glances there ; — 
Till the good angels, when they see me cling 
For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing, 
Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven, 
And bid thee take thy weeping slave to heaven ! 
Oh yes, I'll fly with thee. " 

Scarce had she said 
These breathless words, when a voice, deep and dreafl 
As that of Monker, waking up the dead 
From their first sleep — so startling 'twas to both. — 
Rung through the casement near, " Thy oath ! thy 

oath !" 
Oh Heav'n, the ghastliness of that maid's look ! — 
" 'Tis he," faintly she cried, while terror shook 
Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes, 
Though through the casement, now, nought but the 

skies 
And moonlight fields were seen, calm as before — 
" 'Tis he, and 1 am his — all, all is o'er — 
Go — fly this instant, or thou art ruin'd too — 
My oath, my oath, oh God ! 'tis all too true, 
True as the worm in this cold heart it is — 
I am Mokanna's bride — his, Azim, his. — 
The Dead stood round us, while I spoke that vow 
Their blue lips echo'd it — I hear them now ! 
Their eyes glar'd on me, while 1 pledg'd that bowl 
'Twas burning blood — I feel it in my soul ! 
And the Veil'd Bridegroom— hist ! I've seen to-nighl 
What angels know not of— so foul a sieht 



LALLA ROOKH. 



4 



So horrible — oh ! may'st thou never see 

What there lies hid from all but hell and me ! 

But 1 must hence — off', off— I am not thine, 

Nor HeavVs, nor Love's, nor aught that is divine — 

Hold me not — ha! — think'st thou the fiends that sever 

Hearts, cannot sunder hands ? — thus, then — for ever !" 

With all that strength which madness lends the 
weak, 
She flung away his arm ; and, with a shriek, — 
W T hose sound, though he should linger out more years 
Than wretch e'er told, can never leave his ears, — 
Flew up through that long avenue of light, 
Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night, 
Across the sun, and soon was out of bight. 



Lalla Rookh could think of nothing all day but 
the misery of these two young lovers. Her gaiety 
was gone, and she looked pensively even upon Fad- 
la deen. She felt too, without knowing why, a sort 
of uneasy pleasure in imagining that Azim must have 
been just such a youth as Feramorz ; just as worthy 
to enjoy all the blessings, without any of the pangs, 
of that illusive passion, which too often, like the 
sunny apples of Istkahar, is all sweetness on one side, 
and all bitterness on the other. 

As they passed along a sequestered river after sun- 
set, they saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank, 
whose employment seemed to them so strange, that 
they stopped their palankeens to observe her. She 
had lighted a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, 
and placing it in an earthen dish, adorned with a 
wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling 
hand to the stream, and was now anxiously watching 
its progress down the current, heedless of the gay 
cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. Lalla 
Rookh was all curiosity : — when one of her attend- 
ants, who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges, 
(where this ceremony is so frequent, that often, in 
the dusk of the evening, the river is seen glittering all 
over with lights, like the Oton-tala or Sea of Stars,) 
informed the Princess that it was the usual way in 
which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous 
voyages offered up vows for their safe return. If the 
lamp sunk immediately, the omen was disastrous ; 
but if it went shining down the stream, and continued 
to burn till entirely out of sight, the return of the be- 
loved object was considered as certain. 

Lalla Rookh, as they moved on, more than once 
looked back, to observe how the young Hindoo's 
lamp proceeded ; and, while she saw with pleasure 
that it was still unextinguished, she could not help 
fearing that all the hopes of this life were no better 
than that feeble light upon the river. The remainder 
of the journey was passed in silence She now, for 
the first time, felt that shade of melancholy, which 
comes over the youthful maiden's heart, as sweet 
and transient as her own breath upon a mirror; nor 
was it till she heard the lute of Feramorz, touched 
lightly at the door of her pavilion, that she waked 
from the reverie in which she had been wandering. 
Instantly her eyes were lighted up with pleasure, and, 
after a few unheal d remarks from Fadladeen upon 
the indecorum of a poet seating himself in presence 



of a Princess, every thing was arranged as on the 
preceding evening, and all listened with eagerness 
while the story was thus continued : — 

Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way, 
Where all was waste and silent yesterday ? 
This City of War, which, in a few short hours, 
Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers 
Of Him, who, in the twinkling of a star, 
Built the high pillar' d halls of Chilminar,' 
Had conjur'd up, far as the eye can see, 
This world of tents, and domes, and sun-bright ar 

mory ! — 
Princely pavilions, screen'd by many a fold 
Of crimson cloth, and topp'd with balls of gold;— 
Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun, 
Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun ; 
And camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells, 
Shaking in every breeze their light-ton'd bells! 

But yester-eve, so motionless around, 
So mute was this wide plain, that not a sound 
But the far torrent, or the locust-bird 2 
Hunting among the thickets, could be heard ; — ■ 
Yet hark ! what discords now, of every kind, 
Shouts, laughs, and screams, are revelling m the wind * 
The neigh of cavalry ; the tinkling throngs 
Of laden camels and their driver's songs ; — 
Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze 
Of streamers from ten thousand canopies ; — 
War-music, bursting out from time to time 
With gong and tymbalon's tremendous chime ; — 
Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are mute, 
The mellow breathings of some horn or flute, 
That, far off, broken by the eagle note 
Of th' Abyssinian trumpet, 3 swell and float ? 

Who leads this mighty army ? — ask ye " who ?" 
And mark ye not those banners of dark hue, 
The Night and Shadow, 4 over yonder tent ? — 
It is the Caliph's glorious armament. 
Rous'd in his palace by the dread alarms, 
That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms, 
And of his host of infidels, who hurl'd 
Defiance fierce at Islam 5 and the world ; — 
Though worn with Grecian warfare, and behind 
The veils of his bright palace calm reehn'd, 
Yet brook'd he not such blasphemy should stain, 
Thus unreveng'd, the evening of his reign ; 
But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave" 
To conquer or to perish, once more gave 



1 The edifices of Chilminar and Balbec are supposed le 
have been built by the Genii, acting under the orders ot'Jak 
bin Jan, who governed the world long before the time u! 
Adam. 

2 A native of Khorassan, and allured southward by means 
of the water of a fountain, between Shiraz and Ispahan, 
called the Fountain of Birds, of which it is so loud that it 
will follow wherever that water is carried. 

3 "This trumpet is often called in Abyssinia, nesser cano 
which signifies, The note of the Eagle." — Note of Bruce's 
editor. 

4 The two black standards borne before the Caliphs «1 
the Mouse of Abbas were called, allegorically, the Night and 
the Shadow. See Gibbon. 

5 The Mahometan Religion. 

6 "The Persians swear by the Tomb of Shah Besade, 
who is buried at Casbin ; and when one desires another tt 
asservate a matter, he will ask him if he dare swear by the 
Holy Grave." — Struy. 



42 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



His shadowy banners prouaiy to the breeze, 
And, with an army nurs'd in victories, 
Here stands to crush the rebels that o'er-run 
His blest and beauteous Province of the Sun. 

Ne'er did the march of Mahadi display 
Such pomp before; — not e'en when on his way 
To Mecca's Temple, when both land and sea 
Were spoil'd to feed the Pilgrim's luxury ;' 
When round him, 'mid the burning sands, he saw 
Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw, 
And cool'd his thirsty lip beneath the glow 
Of Mecca's sun, with urns of Persian snow: 2 — 
Nor e'er did armament more grand than that, 
Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat. 
First, in the van, the People of the Rock, 3 
On their light mountain steeds, of royal stock ; 4 
Then Chieftains of Damascus, proud to see 
The flashing of their swords' rich marquetry ; 5 
Men from the regions near the Volga's mouth, 
Wix'd with the rude, black archers of the South; 
And Indian lancers, in white-turban' d ranks, 
From the far Sinde, or Attock's sacred banks, 
With dusky legions from the land of Myrrh, 6 
And many a mace-arm'd Moor, and Mid-Sea islander, 

Nor less in number, though more new and rude 
In warfare's school, was the vast multitude 
That, fir'd by zeal, or by oppression wrong'd, 
Round the white standard of the Impostor throng'd. 
Besides his thousands of Believers, — blind, 
Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind, — 
Many who felt, and more who fear'd to feel 
The bloody Islamite's converting steel, 
Flock'd to his banner; — Chiefs of the Uzbek race, 
Waving their heron crests with martial grace;' 
Turkomans, countless as their flocks, led forth 
From th' aromatic pastures of the North ; 
Wild warriors of the turquoise hills 8 — and those 
Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows 
Of Hindoo Kosh, 9 in stormy freedom bred, 
Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed. 
But none, of all who own'd the Chiefs command, 
Rush'd to that battle-field with bolder hand, 
Or sterner hate, than Iran's outlaw d men, 
Her worshippers of fire 10 — all panting then 
For vengeance on the accursed Saracen ; 



1 Mahadi, in a single pilgrimage to Mecca, expended six 
millions of dinars of gold. 

2 "Nivem Meccain apportavit, rem ibi aut nunquam aut 
*aro visum." — Abulfeda. 

3 The inhabitants of Hejas or Arabia Petne, called by an 
Eastern writer "The People of the Rock." — Ebn Haukal. 

4 "Those horses, called by the Arabians, Kochlani, of 
whom a written genealogy has been kept for 2000 years. 
They are said to derive their origin from King Solomon's 
steeds." — JViebuhr. 

5 " Many of the figures on the blades of their swords, are 
wrought in gold or silver, or in marquetry with small gems." 
— Jlsiat. Misc. vol. i. 

6 Azab, or Saba. 

7 " The Chief* of the Uzbec Tartars wear a plume of 
white heron's feathers in their turbans." — Account of Inde- 
pendent Tartary. 

8 " In the mountains of Nishapour, and Tous, in Khoras- 
san, they find turquoises." — Ebn Haukal. 

9 For a description of these stupendous ranges of moun- 
tains, see FAphinstonc's Caubul. 

10 The Ghebers or Guebres, those original natives of Per- 
sia, who adhered to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoro- 
aster, and who, after the conquest of their country by the 
Arabs, were either persecuted at home, or forced to become 
wnnderers abroad. 



Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn'a, 
Her throne usurp'd, and her bright shrines o'erturn d 
From YezdV eternal Mansion of tne Fire, 
Where aged saints in dreams of Heav'n expire, 
From Badku, and those fountains of blue flame 
That burn into the Caspian, 2 fierce they came, 
Careless for what or whom the blow was sped, 
So vengeance triumph'd, and their tyrants bled I 

Such was the wild and miscellaneous host, 
That high in air their motly banners tost 
Around the Prophet Chief—all eyes still bent 
Upon that glittering Veil, where'er it went, 
That beacon through the battle's stormy flood, 
That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood i 

Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set, 
And ris'n again, and found them grappling yet ; 
While steams of carnage, in his noon-tide blaze, 
Smoke up to heav'n — hot as that crimson haze 
By which the prostrate Caravan is aw'd, 
In the red Desert, when the wind's abroad ! 
" On, swords of God !" the panting Caliph calls,— 
K Thrones for the living — Heav'n for him who falls !' 
" On, brave avengers, on," Mokanna cries, 
" And Eblis blast the recreant slave that flies!'* 
Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day — 
They clash—they strive— the Caliph's troops give 

way! 
Mokanna's self plucks the black Banner down, 
And now the Orient World's imperial crown 
Is just within his grasp — when, hark! that shout! 
Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslem's rout; 
And now they turn — they rally — at their head 
A warrior, (like those angel youths who led, 
In glorious panoply of heav'n's own mail, 
The Champions of the Faith through Bedar's vale,) 5 
Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives, 
Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives 
At once the multitudinous torrent back, 
While hope and courage kindle in his track, 
And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes 
Terrible vistas, through which victory breaks ! 
In vain Mokanna, 'midst the general flight, 
Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night, 
Among the fugitive clouds, that, hurrying by, 
Leave only her unshaken in the sky ! — 
In vain he yells his desperate curses out, 
Deals death promiscuously to all about, 
To foes that charge, and coward friends that fly, 
And seems of all the Great Arch-enemy ! 
The panic spreads — " a miracle !" throughout 
The Moslem ranks, " a miracle !" they shout, 



1 M Yezd, the chief residence of those ancient natives, 
who worship the Sun and the Fire, which latter they have 
carefully kept lighted, without being once extinguished for 
a moment, above 15000 years, on a mountain near Yezd, 
called Ater Quedah, signifying the House or Mansion of 
the Fire. He is reckoned very unfortunate who dies off 
that mountain." — Stephen's Persia. 

2 " When the weather is hazy, the springs of Naptha (on 
an island near Baku) boil up higher, and the Naptha often 
takes fire on the surface of the earth, and runs in a flame 
into the sea, to a distance almost incredible." — Hanway on 
the everlasting Fire at B/i/ca 

3 In the great victory gained by Mahomed at Redar, ho 
was assisted, say the Mussulmans, by three thousand angels, 
led by Gabriel, mounted on his horse Hiazum. — The Koran 
and its Commentators 



LALLA ROOKII. 



43 



All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems 
A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams ; 
And every sword, true as o'er billows dim 
The needle tracks the load-star, following him ! 

Right tow'rds Mokanna now he cleaves his path 
Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath 
He bears from Heav'n withheld its awful burst 
From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst, 
To break o'er him, the mightiest and the worst ! 
But vain his speed — though in that hour of blood, 
Had all God's seraphs round Mokanna stood, 
With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, 
Mokanna's soul would have defied them all ;— 
Yet now the rush of fugitives, too strong 
For human force, hurries e'en him along ; 
In vain he struggles 'mid the wedg'd array 
Of Hying thousands, — he is borne away ; 
And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows 
In this forc'd flight is — murdering, as he goes ! 
As a grim tiger, whom the torrent's might 
Surprises in some parch'd ravine at night, 
Turns, e'en in drowning, on the wretched flocks 
Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks, 
And, to the last, devouring on his way, 
Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay ! 

" Alia il Alia !" — the glad shout renew — 
M Alia Akbar !" ] — the Caliph 's in Merou. 
Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets, 
And light your shrines, and chaunt your ziraleets ; 2 
The swords of God have triumph'd — on his throne 
Your Caliph sits, and the Veil'd Chief hath flown. 
Who does not envy that young warrior now, 
To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow, 
In all the graceful gratitude of power, 
For his throne's safety in that perilous hour ? 
Who does not wonder, when, amidst th' acclaim 
Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name — 
'Mid all those holier harmonies of fame, 
Which sounds along the path of virtuous souls, 
Like music round a planet as it rolls ! 
He turns away coldly, as if some gloom 
Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can illume ;— 
Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze 
Though glory's light may play, in vain it plays \ 
Yes, wretched Azim ! thine is such a grief, 
Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief; 
A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break, 
Or warm, or brighten, — like that Syrian Lake, 3 
Upon whose surface morn and summer shed 
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead ! 
Hearts there have been, o'er which this weight of woe 
Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow ; 
But thine, lost youth ! was sudden — over thee 
It broke at once, when all seem'd ecstacy ; 
When Hope look'd up, and saw the gloomy Past 
Melt into splendour, and Bliss dawn at last — 
'Twas then, ev'n then, o'er joys so freshly blown, 
This mortal blight of misery came down ; 
Ev'n then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart 
Were check'd — like fount-drops, frozen as they start ! 

1 The tecbir, or cry of the Arabs, " Alia Akbar!" say* 
Ockley, means "God is most mighty." 

2 The ziraleet is a kind of chorus, which the women of 
the East sing upon joyful occasions. 

3 The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal nor 
eegetable life. J 



And there, like them, cold, sunless relics nang, 
Each fk'd and chill'd into a lasting pang ! 

One sole desire, one passion now remains, 
To keep fife's fever still within his veins, — 
Vengeance ! — dire vengeance on the wretch who ca«t 
O'er him and all he lov'd that ruinous blast. 
For this, when rumours reach'd him in his flight 
Far, far away, after that fatal night, — 
Rumours of armies, thronging to th' attack 
Of the Veil'd Chief, — for this he wing'd him back, 
Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl'd, 
And came when all seem'd lost, and wildly hurl'd 
Himself into the scale, and sav'd a world ! 
For this he still fives on, careless of all 
The wreaths that glory on his path lets fall ; 
For this alone exists — like lightning-fire 
To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire ! 

But safe, as yet, that Spirit of Evil lives ; 
With a small band of desperate fugitives, 
The last sole stubborn fragment, left unriven, 
Of the proud host that late stood fronting heaven, 
He gain'd Merou — breath'd a short curse of blood 
O'er his lost throne — then pass'd the Jihon's flood, 
And gathering all, whose madness of belief 
Still saw a Saviour in their downfall'n Chief, 
Rais'd the white banner within Neksheb's gates, 2 
And there, untam'd, th' approaching conqueror waiti 

Of all his Haram, all that busy hive, 
With music and with sweets sparkling alive, 
He took but one, the partner of his flight, 
One, not for love — not for her beauty's light— 
For Zelica stood withering midst the gay, 
Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday 
From the Alma tree and dies, while overhead 
To-day's young flower is springing in its stead ! 3 
No, not for love — the deepest damn'd must be 
Touch'd with heaven's glory, ere such fiends as he 
Can feel one glimpse of love's divinity ! 
But no, she is his victim ; — there lie all 
Her charms for him — charms that can never pall, 
As long as hell within his heart can stir, 
Or one faint trace of heaven is left in her. 
To work an angel's ruin, — to behold 
As white a page as Virtue e'er unroll' d 
Blacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll 
Of damning sins, seal'd with a burning soul — 
This is his triumph ; this the joy accurst, 
That ranks him, among demons, all but first ! 
This gives the victim, that before him lies 
Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes, 
A light like that with which hell-fire illumes 
The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes ! 

But other tasks now wait him — tasks that need 
All the deep daringness of thought and deed 
With which tht. Dives 4 have gifted him — for mark. 
Over yon plains, which night had else made dark, 



1 The ancient Oxus. 

2 A city of Transoxiania. 

3 " You never can cast your eyes on this tree, but yor 
meet there either blossoms or fruit: and as the blossom 
drops underneath on the ground, (which is frequently 
covered with these purple-coloured flowers,) others come 
forth in their stead," etc. etc. — Nieuhoff. 

4 The Demons of the Persian mythology 



44 



MOORE S WORKS. 



Those lanterns, countless as the winged lights 

That spangle India's fields on showery nights, 1 — 

Far as their formidable gleams they shed, 

The mighty tents of the beleagu rer spread, 

Glimmering along th' horizon's dusky line, 

And thence in nearer circles, till they shine 

Among the founts and groves, o'er which the town 

In all its arm'd magnificence looks down. 

Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements 

Mokanna views that multitude of tents ; 

Nay, smiles to think that, though entoil'd, beset, 

Not less than myriads dare to front him yet ; — 

That, friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay, 

E'en thus a match for myriads such as they ! 

u Oh ! for a sweep of that dark angel's wing, 

Who brush'd the thousands of th' Assyrian King 2 

To darkness in a moment, that I might 

People Hell's chambers with yon host to-night ! 

But c ome what may, let who will grasp the throne, 

Caliph or Prophet, Man alike shall groan ; 

Let who will torture him, Priest — Caliph — King — 

Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring 

With victims' shrieks and howlings of the slave, — 

Sounds, that shall glad me ev'n within my grave." 

Thus to himself— but to the scanty train 

Still left around him, a far different strain : — 

M Glorious defenders of the sacred Crown 

* bear from Heav'n, whose light, nor blood shall drown 

Nor shadow of earth eclipse ; — before whose gems 

The paly pomp of this world's diadems, 

The crown of Gerashid, the pillar'd throne 

Of Par viz, 3 and the heron crest that shone, 4 

Magnificent, o'er Ali's beauteous eyes, 5 

Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies : 

Warriors, rejoice — the port, to which we've pass'd 

O'er destiny's dark wave, beams out at last ! 

Victory's our own — 'tis written in that Book 

Upon .vhose leaves none but the angels look, 

That Islam's sceptre shall beneath the power 

Of her great foe fall broken in that hour, 

When the moon's mighty orb, before all eyes, 

From Neksheb'p Holy Well portentously shall rise ! 

Now turn and see !" — 

* They turn'd, and, as he spoke, 
A sudden splendour all around them broke, 
And they beheld an orb, ample and bright, 
Rise from the Holy Well, and cast its light 
Round the rich city and the plain for miles, 6 — 
Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tiles 



1 Carrcri mentions the fire-flies in India during the rainy 
■eason.— See his Travels. 

2 "Sennacherib, called by the orientals King of Mous- 
■al."— D'Herbelot. 

3 Chosroes. For the description of his Throne or Palace, 
Bee Gibbon and 1 )' Htrbelol. 

4 "The crown of Gerashid is cloudy and tarnished before 
the heron tuft of thy turban." — Fro:n one of the elegies or 
Bongs in praise of Ali, written in characters of gold round 
tli'} gallery of Abbas's tomb. — See Char din. 

3 "The beauty of Ali's eyes was so remarkable, that when- 
ever the Persians would describe any thing as very lovely, 
they say it is Ayn Kali, or the Eyes of Ali." — Chardin. 

6 "H amusa pendant deux mois le peuple de la ville de 
N-khscheb en faisant sortir toutes les nuits du fond d'un 

[luits iin corps lumineux semblable a la Lune, qui portait sa 
umiere jusqu'a la distance de plusieurs milles." — IT Hcr- 
belot. Hence he was called Sazendehmah, or the Moon- 
maker. 



Of many a dome and fair-roof'd minaret, 
As autumn suns shed round them when they set ' 
Instant from all who saw th' illusive sign 
A murmur broke — "Miraculous ! divine !" 
The Gheber bow'd, thinking his idol Star 
Had wak d, and burst impatient through the bar 
Of midnight, to inflame him to the war ! 
While he of Moussa s creed, saw, in that ray 
The glorious Light which, in his freedom s day 
Had rested on the Ark, 1 and now again 
Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain ! 

" To victory !" is at once the cry of all — 
Nor stands Mokanna loitering at that call ; 
But instant the huge gates are flung aside, 
And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide 
Into the boundless sea, they speed their course 
Right on into the Moslem s mighty force. 
The watchmen of the camp, — who, in their rounds, 
Had paus d and een forgot the punctual sounds 
Of the small drum with which they count the night, 
To gaze upon that supernatural light, — 
Now sink beneath an unexpected arm, 
And in a death-groan give their last alarm. 
" On for the lamps, that light yon lofty screen, 3 
Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean ; 
There rests the Caliph — speed — one lucky lance 
May now achieve mankind's deliverance !" 
Desperate the die — such as they only cast, 
Who venture for a world, and stake their last. 
But Fate s no longer with him — blade for blade 
Springs up to meet them through the glimmering shadet 
And, as the clash is heard, new legions soon 
Pour to the spot, — like bees of Kauzeroon 4 
To the shrill timbrel s summons, — till, at length, 
The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength, 
And back to Neksheb s gates, covering the plain 
With random slaughter, drives the adventurous train 
Among the last of whom, the Silver Veil 
Is seen glittering at times, like the white sail 
Of some toss d vessel, on a stormy night, 
Catching the tempest s momentary light ! 

And hath not this brought the proud spirit low ? 
Nor dash d his brow, nor check'd his daring ? No. 
Though half the wretches, whom at night he led 
To thrones and victory, lie disgrac d and dead, 
Yet morning hears him, with unshrinking crest, 
Still vaunt of thrones, and victory to the rest. 
And they believed him ! — oh, the lover may 
Distrust that look which steals his soul away ; — ■ 
The babe may cease to think that it can play 
With heaven s rainbow ; — alchymists may doubt 
The shining gold their crucible gives out ; 
45ut Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast 
To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last, i 



1 The Shechinah, called Sakiuat in the Koran. — Sea 
Sale's Note, chap. ii. 

2 The parts of the night are made known as well by in- 
struments of music, as by the rounds of the watchmen with 
cries and small drums. — See JJurder's Oriental Customs 
vol. ii. p. 119. 

3 "The Serrapurda, high screens of red cloli, stiffen^ 
ith cane, used to inclose a considerable space ruuud ihd 

royal tents." — Notes on the Bakardavush. 

4 "From the groves of Orange trees at Ka-izeroon, (h« 
bees cull a celebrated honey." — Moner's Travels 



LALLA ROOKH. 



45 



/And well th' Impostor knew all lures and arts, 
That Lucifer e'er taught to tangle hearts ; 
Nor, mid these last bold workings of his plot 
Against men's souls, is Zelica forgot. 
Ill-fated Zelica ! had reason been 
Awake, through half the horrors thou hast seen, 
Thou never could st have borne it — Death had come 
At once and taken thy wrung spirit home. 
But 'twas not so — a torpor, a suspense 
Of thought almost of life, came o'er th' intense 
And passionate struggles of that fearful night, 
When her last hope of peace and heav'n took flight : 
And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy broke, — 
As through some dull volcano's veil of smoke 
Ominous flashings now and then will start, 
Which show the fire 's still busy at its heart ; 
Yet was she mostly wrapp'd in sullen gloom, — 
Not such as Azim's, brooding o'er its doom, 
And calm without, as is the brow of death, 
While busy worms are gnawing underneath ! — 
But in a blank and pulseless torpor, free 
From thought or pain, a seal'd up apathy, 
Which left her oft, with scarce one living thrill, 
The cold, pale victim of her torturer's will. 

Again, as in Merou, he had her deck'd 
Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect ; 
And led her glittering forth before the eyes 
Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice ; 
Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride 
Of the fierce Nile, when, deck'd in all the pride 
Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide V 
And while the wretched maid hung down her head. 
And stood, as one just risen from the dead, 
Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell 
His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell 
Possess'd her now, — and from that darken'd trance 
Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliverance. 
Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shame, 
Her soul was rous'd, and words of wildness came, 
Instant the bold blasphemer would translate 
Her ravings into oracles of fate, 
Would hail Heav'n's signals in her flashing eyes, 
And call her shrieks the language of the skies ! 



But vain at length his arts — despair is seen 
Gathering around ; and famine comes to glean 
All that the sword had left unreap'd: — in vain 
At morn and eve across the northern plain 
He looks impatient for the promis'd spears 
Of the wild hordes and Tartar mountaineers. 
They come not — while his fierce beleaguerers pour 
Engines of havoc in, unknown before, 
And horrible as new ; 2 — javelins, that fly 
Enwreath'd with smoky flames through the dark sky, 
And red-hot globes, that, opening as they mount, 
Discharge, as from a kindled Naptha fount, 
Showers of a consuming fire o'er all below ; 
Looking, as through th' illumin'd night they go, 



1 " A custom still subsisting at this day, seems to me to 
prove that the Egyptians formerly sacrificed a young virgin 
to the god of the Nile ; for they now make a statue of earth 
in shape of a girl, to which they give the name of the Be- 
trothed Bride, and throw it into the river." — Savary. 

2 The Greek fire, which was occasionally lent by the 
Emperors to their allies. " It was," says Gibbon, " either 
launched in red-hot balls of stone and iron, or darted in 
arrows and javelins, twisted round with flax and tow, which 
had deeply imbibed the inflammable oil." 



Like those wild birds 1 that by the Magians, oft, 
At festivals of fire, were sent aloft 
Into the air, with blazing faggots tied 
To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide' 
All night, the groans of wretches who expire, 
In agony, beneath these darts of fire, 
Ring through the city — while, descending o'er 
Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore :- 
Its lone bazaars, with their bright cloths of gold, 
Since the last peaceful pageant left unroll'd ; — 
Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets 
Now gush with blood ; — and its tall minarets, 
That late have stood up in the evening glare 
Of the red sun, unhallow'd by a prayer ; — 
O'er each, in turn, the dreadful flame-bolts fall, 
And death and conflagration throughout all 
The desolate city hold high festival ! 

Mokanna sees the world is his no more ; — 
One sting at parting, and his grasp is o'er. 
" What ! drooping now ?" — thus", with unblushing 

cheek, 
He hails the few, who yet can hear him speak, 
Of all those famish'd slaves, around him lying, 
And by the light of blazing temples dying ; — 
" What ! drooping now ? — now, when at length we 

press 
Home o'er the very threshold of success ; 
When Alla from our ranks hath thinn'd away 
Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray 
Of favour from us, and we stand at length 
Heirs of his light and children of his strength, 
The chosen few who shall survive the fall 
Of kings and thrones, triumphant over all ! 
Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are, 
All faith in him, who was your Light, your Star ? 
Have you forgot the eye of glory, hid 
Beneath this Veil, the flashing of whose lid 
Could, like a sun-stroke of the desert, wither 
Millions of such as yonder Chief brings hither ? 
Long have its lightnings slept — too long — but now 
All earth shall feel th' unveiling of this brow ! 
To-night — yes, sainted men ! This very night, 
I- bid you all to a fair festal rite, 
Where, having deep refresh'd each weary limb 
With viands such as feast Heaven's cherubim, 
And kindled up your souls, now sunk and dim, 
With that pure wine the dark-ey'd maids above 
Keep, seal'd with precious musk, for those they 

love, 2 — 
I will myself uncurtain in your sight 
The wonders of this brow's ineffable light ; 
Then lead you forth, and with a wink disperse 
Yon myriads, howling through the universe 1" 

Eager they listen — while each accent darts 
New life into their chill'd and hope-sick hearts ; — 
Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies 
To him upon the stake, who drinks and dies ! 



1 "At the great festival of fire, called the Sheb Seze, 
they used to set fire to large bunches of dry combustibles, 
fastened round wild beasts and birds, which being then let 
loose, the air and earth appeared one great illumination ; 
and as these terrifkd creatures naturally fled to the wood 
for shelter, it is easy to conceive the conflagrations they 
produced." — Richardson'' s Dissertation. 

2 "The righteous shall be given to drink of pure wine, 
sealed; the seal whereof shall be musk." — Eoran y chap 
Euxiii 



46 



MOORE'S WORKS 



Wildly Ihey point their lances to the light 
Of the fast-sinking sun, and shout " to-night !" — 
" To-night," their Chief re-echoes, in a voice 
Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice ! 
Deluded victims — never hath this earth 
Seen mourning half so mournful as their mirth ! 
Here, to the few, whose iron frames had stood 
This racking waste of famine and of blood, 
Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout 
Of triumph like a maniac's laugh broke out ; — 
There, others, lighted by the smouldering fire, 
Danc'd, like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre, 
4 Among the dead and dying, strew'd around ; — > 
While some pale wretch look'd on, and from his wound 
Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled, 
In ghastly transport wav'd it o'er his head ! 

'Twas more than midnight now — a fearful pause 
Had follow'd the long shouts, the wild applause, 
That lately from those royal gardens burst, 
Where the Veil'd demon held his feast accurst, 
When Zelica — alas, poor ruin'd heart, 
in every horror doom'd to bear its part ! — 
Was bidden to the banquet by a slave, 
Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave, 
Grew black, as though the shadows of the grave 
Compass'd him round, and, ere he could repeat 
His message through, fell lifeless at her feet ! 
Shuddering she went — a soul-felt pang of fear, 
A presage that her own dark doom was near, 
Rous'd every feeling, and brought Reason back 
Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack. 
All round seem'd tranquil — e'en the foe had ceas'd, 
As if aAvare of that demoniac feast, 
His fiery bolts ; and though the heavens look'd red, 
'Twas but some distant conflagration's spread 
But hark ! — she stops — she listens — dreadful tone ! 
Tis her tormentor's laugh — and now, a groan, 
A long death-groan comes with it — can this be 
The place of mirth, the bower of revelry ? 
She enters. Holy Alla, what a sight 
Was there before her ! By the glimmering light 
Of the pale dawn, mix'd with the flare of brands 
That round lay burning, dropp'd from lifeless hands, 
She saw the board, in splendid mockery spread, 
Rich censers breathing — garlands overhead, — 
The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaff'd, 
All gold and gems, but — what had been the draught ? 
Oh ! who need ask, that saw those livid guests, 
With their swoll'n heads sunk, blackening, on their 

breasts, 
Or looking pale to Heaven with glassy glare, 
As if they sought but saw no mercy there ; 
As if they felt, though poison rack d them through, 
Remorse the deadlier torment of the two ! 
While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train 
Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain 
Would have met death with transport by his side, 
Here mute and helpless gasp'd ; — but as they died, 
Look d horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain, 
And clench'd the slackening hand at him in vain. 

Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare, 
The stony look of horror and despair, 
Which some of these expiring victim? cast 
Upon their soul's tormentor to the last ; — 



Upon that mocking Fiend, whose Veil, now rais'd, 

Show'd them, as in death's agony they gaz'd, 

Not the long promis'd light, the brow, whose beaming 

Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming 

But features horribler than Hell e'er trac'd 

On its own brood ; — no Demon of the Waste, 1 

No church-yard Ghole, caught lingering in the light 

Of the bless'd sun, e'er blasted human sight 

With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those 

Th' Impostor now, in grinning mockery, shows. — 

"There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your 

Star, — 
Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are. 
Is it enough ? or must I, while a thrill 
Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still ? 
Swear that the burning death ye feel within, 
Is but the trance with which Heav'n's joys begin; 
That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgrac d. 
E en monstrous man, is — after God's own taste ; 
And that — but see ! — ere I have half-way said 
My greetings through, th' uncourteous souls are fled. 
Farewell, sweet spirits ! not in vain ye die, 
If Eblis loves you half so well as I. — 
Ha, my young bride ! — "tis well — take thou thy seat ; 
Nay come — no shuddering — didst thou never meet 
The dead before? — they grac'd our wedding, sweet, 
And these, my guests to-night, have brimm d so true 
Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge one too. 
But — how is this ? — all empty ? all drunk up ? 
Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, 
Young bride, — yet stay — one precious drop remains, 
Enough to. warm a gentle Priestess' veins ; — 
Here, drink — and should thy lover's conquering arms 
Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms, 
Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, 
And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss ! 

" For me — I too must die — but not like these 
Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze ; 
To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, 
With all death's grimness added to its own, 
And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes, 
Of slaves, exclaiming 'There his Godship lies !' — 
No — cursed race — since first my soul drew breath, 
They've been my dupes, and shall be, even in death 
Thou see'st yon cistern in the shade — 'tis fill'd 
With burning drugs, for this last hour distill'd ; 
There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame — 
Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame ! 
There perish, all — ere pulse of thine shall fail — 
Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale. 
So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rave, 
Proclaim that Heav'n took back the Saint it gave ;— 
That I've but vanish'd from this earth awhile, 
To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile ! 
So shall they build me altars m their zeal, 
Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel ; 
Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell, 
Written in blood — and Bigotry may swell 
The sail he spreads for Heaven with blasts from Hell ! 



1 "The Afghauns believe each of the numerous solitudes 
and deserts of their country, to be inhabited by a lonely 
demon, whom they call the Ghoolee Beeabau, or Spirit of 
the Waste. They often illustrate the wildness of any se 
qtiestt'red tribe, by saying, they are wild as the Demon of 
the Waste."— Elphinstone's Caubul. 



J 



LALLA ROOKH. 



So shall my banner, through long ages, be 
The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy ; — 
Kings yet unborn shall rue Mo k anna's name, 
And, though I die, my spirit, still the same, 
Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife, 
And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in life ! 
But hark ! their battering engine shakes the wall — 
Why, let it shake — thus I can brave them all : 
No trace of me shall greet them, when they come, 
And I can trust thy faith, for— thou' It be dumb. 
Now mark how readily a wretch like me, 
In one bold plunge, commences Deity !" 

He sprung and sunk, as the last words were said — 
Quick clos'd the burning waters o er his head, 
And Zelica was left — within the ring 
Of those wide walls the only living thing ; 
The only wretched one, still curst with breath, 
In all that frightful wilderness of death ! 
More like some bloodless ghost,— such as, they tell, 
In the lone Cities of the Silent 1 dwell, 
And there, unseen of all but Alla, sit 
Each by its own pale carcass, watching it. 

But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs 
Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers. 
Their globes of fire, (the dread artillery, lent 
By Greece to conquering Mahadi,) are spent ; 
And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sent 
From high balistas, and the shielded throng 
Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along, — 
All speak th' impatient Islamite's intent 
To try, at length, if tower and battlement 
And bastion'd wall be not less hard to win, 
Less tough to break down than the hearts within. 
First in impatience and in toil is he, 
The burning Azim — oh ! could he but see 
Th' Impostor once alive within his grasp, 
Not the gaunt lion's hug, nor Boa's clasp, 
Could match the gripe of vengeance, or keep pace 
With the fell heartiness of Hate's embrace ! 

Loud rings the pond'rous ram against the walls ; 
Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls ; 
But still no breach — " once more, one mighty swing 
Of all your beams, together thundering!" 
There — the wall shakes — the shouting troops exult — 
" Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult 
Right on that spot, — and Neksheb is our own !" — 
'Tis done — the battlements come crashing down, 
And the huge wall, by that stroke riv'n in two, 
Yawning, like some old crater, rent anew, 
Shows the dim, desolate city smoking through ! 
But strange ! no signs of life — nought living seen 
Above, below what can this stillness mean ? 
A minute's pause suspends all hearts and eyes — 
"In through the breach," impetuous Azim cries; 
But the cool Caliph, fearful of some wile 
In this blank stillness, checks the troops awhile. — 
Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanc'd 
Forth from the ruin'd walls ; and, as there glanc'd 
A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see 
The well-known SUver Vei) !— " 'Tis He, 'tis He, 



1 "They have all a great reverence for burial-grounds, 
which they sometimes call by the poetical name of Cities 
of the Silent, and which they people with the ghosts of the 
departed, who sit each at the head of his own grave, invisi- 
ble to mortal eyes." — Elphinstone. 



Mokanna, and alone !" they shout around ; 
Young Azim from his steed springs to the ground— 
" Mine, Holy Caliph ! mine," he cries, " the task 
To crush yon daring wretch — 'tis all I ask." 
Eager he darts to meet the demon foe, 
Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow 
And falteringly comes, till they are near ; 
Then, with a bound, rushes on Azim's spear , 
And, casting off the Veil in falling, shows — 
Oh !— 'tis his Zelica's life-blood that flows ! 

" I meant not, Azim," soothingly she said, 
As on his trembling arm she lean'd her head, 
And, looking in his face, saw anguish there 
Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can beai — 
" I meant not thou should'st have the pain of this , — 
Though death, with thee thus tasted, is a bliss 
Thou would'st not rob me of, didst thou but know 
How oil I've pray'd to God I might die so ! 
But the Fiend's venom was too scant and slow ; — 
To linger on were maddening — and I thought 
If once that Veil — nay, look not on it — caught 
The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be 
Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly. 
But this is sweeter — oh ! believe me, yes — 
I would not change this sad, but dear caress, 
This death within thy arms I would not give 
For the most smiling life the happiest live ! 
All, that stood dark and drear before the eye 
Of my stray'd soul, is passing swiftly by ; 
A light comes o'er me, from those looks of love, 
Like the first dawn of mercy from above ; 
And if thy lips but tell me I'm forgiv'n, 
Angels will echo the blest words in heaven ! 
But live, my Azim ; — oh ! to call thee mine 
Thus once again ! my Azim — dream divine ! 
Live, if thou ever lov'dst me, if to meet 
Thy Zelica hereafter would be sweet, 
Oh live to pray for her — to bend the knee 
Morning and night before that Deity, 
To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain, 
As thine are, Azim, never breath'd in vain, 
And pray that he may pardon her, — may tako 
Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake, 
And, nought remembering but her love to thee, 
Make her all thine, all His, eternally ! 
Go to those happy fields where first we twin'd 
Our youthful hearts together — every wind, 
That meets thee there, fresh from the well-knowa 

flowers, 
Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours 
Back to thy soul, and thou may'st feel again 
For thy poor Zelica as thou did'st then. 
So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies 
To heav'n upon the morning's sunshine, rise 
With all love's earliest ardour to the skies ! 
And should they — but alas ! my senses fail — 
Oh for one minute ! — should thy prayers prevail — 
If pardon'd souls may from that World of Bliss 
Reveal their joy to those they love in this, — 
I'll come to thee — in some sweet dream — and tell — 
Oh heaven — I die — dear love ! farewell, farewell." 

Time fleeted — years on years had pass'd away 
And few of those who, on that mournful day, 
Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see 
The maiden's death, and the youth's agony, 



43 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Weie living still — when, by a rustic grave 

Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave, 

An aged man, wno nad grown aged ther§ 

By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer, 

For .the last time knelt down — and, though the shade 

Of death hung darkening over him, there play'd 

A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek, 

That brigiten'd even Death — like the last streak 

Of intense glory on th' horizon's brim, 

When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim. 

His soid had seen a vision, while he slept ; 

She, for whose spirit he had pray'd and wept 

So many years, had come to him, all drest 

In angel's smiles, and told him she was blest ! 

For this the old man breath'd his thanks, and died, — 

And there, upon the banks of that lov'd tide, 

He and his Zeuca sleep side by side. 



The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan 
being ended, they were now doomed to hear Fadla- 
DEEn's criticisms upon it. A series of disappoint- 
ments and accidents had occurred to this learned 
Chamberlain during the journey. In the first place, 
those couriers stationed, as in the reign of Shah 
Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of 
India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the 
royal table, had, by some cruel irregularity, failed 
in their duty ; and to eat any mangoes'but those of 
Mazagong was, of course, impossible. In the next 
place, the elephant, laden with his fine antique porce- 
lain, had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shattered the 
whole set to pieces : — an irreparable loss, as many of 
the vessels were so exquisitely old as to have been 
used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned 
many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran 
too. supposed to be the identical copy between the 
.eaves of which Mahomet's favourite pigeon used to 
nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three 
whole days; not without much spiritual alarm to 
Fadladeen, who, though professing to hold, with 
other loyal and orthodox Mussulmans, that salvation 
could only be found in the Koran, was strongly sus- 
pected of believing in his heart, that it could only be 
found in his own particular copy of it. When to all 
these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks, 
in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes in- 
stead of the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily 
suppose that he came to the task of criticism with, at 
least, a sufficient degree of irritability for the'purpose. 

" In order," said he, importantly swinging about his 
chaplet of pearls, "to convey with clearness my 
opinion of the story this young man has related, it is 
necessary to take a review of all the stories that have 
sver — "My good Fadladeen !" exclaimed the Prin- 
cess, interrupting him, " we really do not deserve that 
you should give yourself so much trouble. Your 
opinion of the poem we have just heard, will, I have 
no doubt, be abundantly edifying, without any further 
waste of your valuable erudition." " If that be all," 
replied the critic, — evidently mortified at not being 
allowed to show how much he knew about every 
thing but the subject immediately before him — " If 
that bo all that is required, the matter is easily des- 



patched." He then proceeded to analyze the poem, 
in that strain, (so well known to the unfortunate bards 
of Delhi,) whose censures were an infliction from 
which few recovered, and whose very praises were like 
the honey extracted from the bitter flowers of the 
aloe. The chief personages of the story were, if he 
rightly understood them, an ill-favoured gentleman, 
with a veil over his face ; — a voung lady, whose rea 
son went and came according as it suited the poet's 
convenience to be sensible or otherwise ; — and a 
youth in one of those, hideous Bucharian bonnets, 
who took the aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Di- 
vinity. " From such materials," said he, " what can 
be expected? — after rivalling each other in long 
speeches and absurdities, through some thousands of 
lines, as indigestible as the filberds of Berdaa, our friend 
in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis ; the young 
lady dies in a set speech, whose only recommendation 
is that it is her last ; and the lover lives on to a good 
old age, for the laudable purpose of seeing her ghost, 
which he at last happily accomplishes and expires. 
This, you will allow, is a fair summary of the story ; 
and if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, told no better, 
our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honour and glory !) 
had no need to be jealous of his abilities for story 
telling." 1 

With respect to the style, it was worthy of the mat 
ter; — it had not even those politic contrivances of 
structure, which make up for the commonness of the 
thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner, nor tha\ 
stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments, 
mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's 2 apron 
converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and em- 
broidered into consequence. Then, as to the versifi- 
cation, it was, to say no worse of it, execrable : it had 
neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of 
Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi • but ap- 
peared to him, in the uneasy heaviness of its move- 
ments, to have been modelled upon the gait of a very 
tired dromedary. The licenses too in which it in- 
dulged were unpardonable; — for instance this line, and 
the poem abounded with such ; — 

Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream. 

" What critic that can count," said Fadladeen, 
" and has his full complement of fingers to count 
withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic su- 
perfluities ?" — He here looked round and discovered 
that most of his audience were asleep ; while tha 
glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their 
example. It became necessary, therefore, however 
painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable ani 
mad versions for the present, and he accordingly con- 
cluded, with an air of dignified candour, thus : " Not- 
withstanding the observations which I have thought 
it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to dis 
courage the young man : so far from it, indeed, that 
if he will but totally alter his style of writing and 



1 La lecture de ces Fables plaisait si fort aux Arabes, 
que, quand Mahomet les entretenait de l'Histoire de 1'An- 
cien Testament, ils les meprisaient, lui disant que celles 
one Nasser leur racontait etaient beaucoup pins belles. 
Cette preference attira a Nasser la malediction de Mahomet 
et de tous ses disciples. — V Herbelot. 

2 The blacksmith Gao, who successfully resisted the 
tyrant Zohak, and whose apron became the Royal F'andarJ 
of Persia. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



4y 



tnm&ing, I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly 

pleased with him." 
Some days elapsed, after this harangue of the Great 

Chamberlain, before Lalla Rookh could venture to 

ask for another story. The youth was still a wel- 
come guest in the pavilion ; to one heart, perhaps too 
dangerously welcome — but all mention of poetry was, 
as if by common consent, avoided. Though none of 
the party had much respect for Fadladeen, yet his 
censures, thus magisterially delivered, evidently made 
an impression on them all. The Poet himself, to 
whom criticism was quite a new operation, (being 
wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies, Cash- 
me7e,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till 
use has made it more tolerable to the patient ; — the 
ladies began to suspect that they ought not to be 
pleased, and seemed to conclude that there must have 
been much good sense in what Fadladeen said, 
from its having set them all so soundly to sleep ; — 
while the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to 
triumph in the idea of having, for the hundred and 
fiftieth time in his life, extinguished a Poet. Lalla 
Rookh alone — and Love knew why — persisted in 
being delighted with all she had heard, and in resolv- 
ing to hear more as speedily as possible. Her man- 
ner, however, of first returning to the subject was 
unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat 
of noon near a fountain, on which some hand had 
rudely traced those well-known words from the 
Garden of Sadi, — " Many, like me, have viewed this 
fountain, but they are gone, and their eyes are closed 
for ever !'' — that she took occasion, from the melan- 
choly beauty of this passage, to dwell upon the charms 
of poetry in general. " It is true," she said, " few 
poets can imitate that sublime bird, which flies al- 
ways in the air, and never touches the earth; 1 — it is 
only once in many ages a Genius appears, whose 
words, like those on the Written Mountain, last for 
ever : — but still there are some, as delightful perhaps, 
though not so wonderful, who, if not stars over our 
head, are at least flowers along our path, and whose 
sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to in- 
hale, without calling upon them for a brightness and 
a durability beyond their nature. In short," continued 
she, blushing, as if conscious of being caught in an 
oration, " it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander 
through his regions of enchantment, without having a 
critic for ever, like the old Man of the sea, upon his 
back.'' 2 — Fadladeen, it was plain, took this last 
luckless allusion to himself, and would treasure it up 
in his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A 
sudden silence ensued ; and the Princess, glancing a 
look at Feramorz, saw plainly she must wait for a 
more courageous moment. 

But the glories of Nature, and her wild, fragrant 
airs, playing freshly over the current of youthful 
spirits, will soon heal even deeper wounds than the 
dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an even- 
ing or two after, they came to the small Valley of 
Gardens, which had been planted by order of the 
Emperor for his favourite sister Rochinara, during 
their progress to Cashmere, some years before ; and 
never was there a more sparkling assemblage of 
sweets, since the Gulzar-e-Irem, or Rose-bower of 



The Huma. 
G 



2 The story of Sinbad. 



lrem. Every precious flower was mere to be found, 
that poetry, or love, or religion has ever consecrated, 
from the d*rk hyacinth, to which Hafez compares 
his mistress's hair, to the Camalala, by whose rosy 
blossoms the heaven of India is scented. As they 
sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and 
Lalla Rookh remarked that she could fancy it the 
abode of that flower-loving Nymph whom they wor- 
ship in the temples of Kathay, or one of those Peris, 
those beautiful creatures of the air, who live upon per- 
fumes, and to whom a place like this might make some 
amends for the Paradise they have lost, — the young 
Poet, in whose eyes she appeared, while she spoke, 
to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was 
describing, said, hesitatingly, that he remembered a 
Story of a Peri, which, if the Princess had no objec- 
tion, he would venture to relate. " It is," said he, 
with an appealing look to Fadladeen, " in a lighter 
and humbler strain than the other;" then, striking a 
few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he 
thus began : — 

PARADISE AND THE PERI. 



One morn a Peri at the gate 
Of Eden stood, disconsolate ; 
And as she listen'd to the Springs 

Of Life within, like music flowing, 
And caught the light upon her wings 

Through the half-open'd portal glowing, 
She wept to think her recreant race 
Should e'er have lost that glorious place ! 

" How happy," exclaim'd this child of air, 
" Are the holy Spirits who wander there, 

'Mid flower: that never shall fade or fall : 
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, 
And the stars themselves have flowers for me, 

One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all . 

" Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, 
With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear, 1 

And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall ; 
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, 
And the golden floods, that thitherward stray, 2 
Yet — oh, 'tis only the Blest can say 

How the waters of Heaven outshine them all 

" Go wing thy flight from star to star, 
From world to luminous world, as far 

As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; 
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, 
And multiply each through endless years, 

One minute of Heaven is worth them all !" 

The glorious Angel, who was keeping 
The gates of Light, beheld her weeping ; 
And, as he nearer drew and listen'd 
To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd 
Within his eyelids, like the spray 
From Eden's fountain, when it lies 



1 " Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of 
Cashmere. One is called Char Chenaur, from the plane- 
trees upon it." — Forster. 

2 " The Altan Kol,or Golden River of Tibet, which runs 
into the Lakes of Sing-su-hay, has abundance of gold in its 
sands, which employs the inhabitants all summer in gather 
ing it." — Description of Tibet in Pinkerton 



50 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



On the blue flow'r, which, Bramins say, 
Blooms no where but in Paradise ! 

" Nymph of a fair, but erring line !" 

Gently he said — " One hope is thine. 

'Tis written in the Book of Fate, 
' The Peri yet may be forgiven 

Wlio brings to this Eternal Gate 

The Gift that is most dear to Heaven! 1 

Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin ; — 

'Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in !" 

Rapidly as comets run 

To th' embraces of the sun — 

Fleeter than the starry brands, 

Flung at night from angel hands 1 

At those dark and daring sprites, 

Who would climb th' empyreal heights,— 

Down the blue vault the Peri flies, 

And, lighted earthward by a glance 
That just then broke from morning's eyes, 

Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse 

But whither shall the Spirit go 

To find this gift for Heav'n ? — " I know 

The wealth," she cries, "of every urn, 

In which unnumber'd rubies burn, 

Beneath the pillars of Chilminar ; 2 — 

I know where the Isles of Perfume are ■ 

Many a fathom down in the sea, 

To the south of sun-bright Araby ; 3 — 

I know too where the Genii hid 

The jewell'd cup of their King Jamshid, 4 

With Life's elixir sparkling high — 

But gifts like these are not for the sky. 

Where was there ever a gem that shone 

Like the steps of Alla's wonderful Throne ? 

And the Drops of Life — oh ! what would they be 

In the boundless Deep of Eternity ?" 

While thus she mus'd, her pinions fann'd 
The air of that sweet Indian land, 
Whose air is balm ; whose ocean spreads 
O'er coral rocks and amber beds ; 
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam 
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem ; 
Whose rivulets are like rich brides, 
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides ; 
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice 
Might be a Peri's Paradise ! 
But crimson now her rivers ran 

With human blood — the smell of death 
Came reeking from those spicy bowers, 
And man, the sacrifice of man, 

Mingled his taint with every breath 
Upwafted from the innocent flowers I 
Land of the Sun ! what foot invades 
Thy pagods and thy pillar'd shades— 



1 " The Mahometans suppose that falling stars are the 
firebrands wherewith the good angels drive away the bad, 
when they approach too near the empyreuin or verge of the 
Heavens."— Fryer. 

2 "The Forty Pillars: so the Persians call the ruins of 
Porsepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace and the 
edifices at Balbec were built by Genii, for the purpose of 
niding in their subterraneous caverns immense treasures, 
which still remain there."— D'Herbelot, Volney. 

3 The Isles of Panchaia. 

4 " The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when dig- 
ging foi the foundations of Persepolis." — Richardson. 



Thy cavern shrines, and idol stones, 

Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones? 

'Tis He of Gazna !' — fierce in wrath 

He comes, and India's diadems 
Lie scatter' d in his ruinous path. — 

His blood-hounds he adorns with gems, 
Torn from the violated necks 

Of many a young and lov'd Sultana ; 2 — 

Maidens within their pure Zenana, 

Priests in the very fane he slaughters, 
And choaks up with the glittering wrecks 

Of golden shrines the sacred waters • 

Downward the Peri turns her gaze, 
And, through the war-field's bloody haze, 
Beholds a youthful warrior stand, 

Alone, beside his native river, — 
The red blade broken in his hand, 

And the last arrow in his quiver. 
" Live," said the Conqueror, " live to share 
The trophies and the crowns I bear !" 
Silent that youthful warrior stood — 
Silent he pointed to the flood 
All crimson with his country's blood, 
Then sent his last remaining dart, 
For answer to th' Invader's heart. 
False flew the shaft, though pointed well ; 
The Tyrant liv'd, the Hero fell !— 
Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay, . 

And when the rush of war was past, 
Swiftly descending.on a ray 

Of morning light, she caught the last — 
Last glorious drop his heart had shed, 
Before its free-born spirit fled ! 
" Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, 
" My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. 
Though foul are the drops that oft distil 

On the field of warfare, blood like this, 

For Liberty shed, so holy is, 
It would not stain the purest rill, 

That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss ! 
Oh ! if there be, on this earthly sphere, 
A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, 
'Tis the last libation Liberty draws 
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause !" 
" Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave 

The gift into his radiant hand, 
" Sweet is our welcome of the Brave 

Who die thus for their native land.— 
But see — alas ! — the crystal bar 
Of Eden moves not — holier far 
Than e'en this drop the boon must be, 
That opens the gates of Heav'n for thee !" 

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, 

Now among Afric's Lunar Mountains, 3 
Far to the South, the Peri lighted ; 



1 Mahmood of Gazna, or Ghizni, who conquered India in 
the beginning of the 11th century. — See his History in Dow 
and Sir J. Malcolm. 

2 " It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan 
Mahmood was so magnificent, that he kept 400 grey hounds 
and blood-hounds, each of which wore a collar set with 
jewels, and a covering edged with gold and pearls." — Uni- 
versal History, vol. iii. 

3 " The Mountains of the Moon, or the Montes Lun«s of 
antiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to rise ' 
— Bruce. 



^=£ 



LALLA ROOKH. 



And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains 
Of that Egyptian tide, — whose birth 
Is hidden from the sons of earth, 
Deep in those solitary woods, 
Where oft the Genii of the Floods 
Dance round the cradle of their Nile, 
And hail the new-born Giant's smile I 1 
Thence, over Egypt's palmy groves, 

Her grots, and sepulchres of kings, 2 
The exil'd Spirit sighing roves ; 
And now hangs listening to the doves 
In warm Rosetta's vale 3 — now loves 

To watoh the moonlight on the wings 
Of the white pelicans that break 
The azure calm of M<eris' Lake. 4 
Twas a fair scene — a land more bright 

Never did mortal eye behold ! 
Who could have thought, that saw this night 

Those valleys, and their fruits of gold, 
Basking in heav'n's serenest light ; — 
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending 

Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads, 
Like youthful maids, when sleep, descending," 

Warns them to their silken beds ; 5 — 
Those virgin lilies, all the night 

Bathing their beauties in the lake, 
That they may rise more fresh and bright, 

When their beloved Sun 's awake ; — 
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem 
The relics of a splendid dream ; 

Amid whose fairy loneliness 
Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard, 
Nought seen but (when the shadows, Hitting 
Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam) 
Some purple-wing'd Sultana 6 sitting 

Upon a column, motionless 
And glittering, like an idol bird ! — 
Who could have thought, that there, e'en there, 
Amid those scenes so still and fair, 

The Demon of the Plague hath cast 

From his hot wing a deadlier blast, 
More mortal far than ever came 
From the red Desert's sands of flame ! 
So quick, that every living thing 
Of human shape, touch'd by his wing, 

Like plants, Avhere the Simoon hath past, 
At once falls black and withering ! 

The surf' went down on many a brow, 

Which, full of bloom and freshness then, 
Is rankling in the pest-house now, 



1 " The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the names 
of Abey and Alawy, or the Giant."— Asiat. Researches, 
vol. i. p. 387. 

2 See Perry's View of the Levant, for an account of the 
Bepulchres in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots 
covered all over with hieroglyphics, in the mountains of 
Upper Egypt. 

3 " The orchards of Rosetta are filled with turtle-doves." 
—Sennini. 

4 Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Moeris. 

5 " The superb date-tree, whose head languidly reclines, 
like that of a handsome woman overcome with sleep." — 
Dafard el Hadad. 

6 " That beautiful bird, with plumage of the finest shining 
blue, with purple beak and legs, the natural and living orna- 
ment of the temples and palaces of the Greeks and Romans, 
which, from the stateliness of its port, as well as the bril- 
liancy of its colours has obtained the title of Sultana." — 
Sannini. 



And ne'er will feel that sun again ! 
And oh ! to see th' unburied heaps 
On which the lonely moonlight sleeps — 
The very vultures turn away, 
And sicken at so foul a prey ! 
Only the fierce hyaena stalks 1 
Throughout the city's desolate walks 
At midnight, and his carnage plies — 

Woe to the half-dead wretch who meets 
The glaring of those large blue eyes 2 

Amid the darkness of the streets ! 

" Poor race of Men !" said the pitying Spirit, 

"Dearly ye pay for your primal fall — 
Some flowrets of Eden ye still inherit, 

But the trail of the Serpent is over them all 
She wept — the air grew pure and clear 

Around her, as the bright drops ran; 
For there's a magic in each tear 

Such kindly Spirits weep for man ! 

Just then beneath some orange trees, 
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze 
Were wantoning together, free, 
Like age at play with infancy — 
Beneath that fresh and springing bower, 

Close by the Lake, she heard the moan 
Of one who, at this silent hour, 

Had thither stol'n to die alone. 
One who in life, where'er he mov'd, 

Drew after him the hearts of many ; 
Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd, 

Dies here, unseen, unwept by any ! 
None to watch near him — none to slake 

The fire that in his bosom lies, 
With e'en a sprinkle from that lake, 

Winch shines so cool before his eyes. 
No voice, well-known through many a day 

To speak the last, the parting word, 
Which, when all other sounds decay, 

Is still iike distant music heard : 
That tender farewell on the shore 
Of this rude world, when all is o'er, 
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark 
Puts off into the unknown Dark. 

Deserted youth ! one thought alone 

Shed joy around his soul in death — 
That she, whom he for years had known 
And lov'd, and might have call'd his own, 

Was safe from this foul midnight's breath ;— 
Safe in her father's princely halls, 
Where the cool airs from fountain — falls, 
Freshly perfum'd by many a brand 
Of the sweet wood from India's land, 
Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd. 

But see, — who yonder comes by stealth, 

This melancholy bower to seek, 
Like a young envoy sent by Health, 

With rosy gifts upon her cheek 1 
Tis she — far off, through moonlight dim, 

He knew his own betrothed bride, 



1 Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred in Wert 
Barbary, when he was there, says, " The birds of the air L'ed 
away from the abodes of men. The hyaenaa, on the con- 
trary, visited the cemeteries," &.c. 

2 Bruce. 



52 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



She, who would rather die with him, 

Than live to gain the world beside ! — 
Her arms are round her lover now, 

His livid cheek to hers she presses, 
And dips, to bind his burning brow, 

In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses. 
Ah ! once, how little did he think 
An hour would come, when he should shrink 
With horror from that dear embrace, 

Those gentle arms, that were to him 
Holy as is the cradling place 
Of Eden's infant cherubim ! 
And now he yields — now turns away, 
Shuddering as if the venom lay 
All in those proffer'd lips alone — 
Those lips that, then so fearless grown, 
Never until that instant came 
Near his unask'd, or without shame. 
" Oh ! let me only breathe the air, 

The blessed air that's breath'd by thee, 
And, whether on its wings it bear 

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me ! 
There, drink my tears, while yet they fall, — 
1 Would that my bosom's blood were balm, 
And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all, 
To give thy brow one minute's calm. 
Nay, turn not from me that dear face — 

Am I not thine — thy own lov'd bride— 
The one, the chosen one, whose place 

In life or death is by thy side ! 
Think'st thou that she, whose only light, 

In this dim world, from thee hath shone, 
Could bear the long, the cheerless night, 

That must be hers when thou art gone 1 
That I can live, and let thee go, 
Who art my life itself? — No, no — 
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew 
Out of its heart must perish too ! 
Then turn to me, my own love, turn, 
Before like thee I fade and burn ; 
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share 
The last pure life that lingers there !" 
She fails — she sinks — as dies the lamp 
In charnel airs or cavern-damp, 
So quickly do his baleful sighs 
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes. 
One struggle — and his pain is past— 

Her lover is no longer living ! 
One kiss the maiden gives, one last, 
Long kiss, which she expires in giving ! 

" Sleep," said the Peri, as softly she stole 
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, 
As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast— 
u Sleep on ; in visions of odour rest, 
In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd 
Th' enchanted pile of that lonely bird, 
Who sings at the last his own death-lay, 1 
And in music and perfume dies away !" 

Thus saying, from her lips she spread 
Unearthly breathings through the place, 



1 " In the East, they suppose the Phoenix to have fifty 
orifices, in his bill, which are continued to his tail; and that, 
after living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral 
pile, sings a melodious air of different harmonies through 
his fifty organ pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which 
sets fixe to the wood, and consumes himself. — Richardson. 



And shook her sparkling wreath, ana shed 

Such lustre o'er each paly face, 
That like two lovely saints they seem'd 

Upon the eve of dooms-day taken 
From their dim graves, in odour sleeping ; — 

While that benevolent Peri beam'd 
Like their good angel, calmly keeping 

Watch o er them, till their souls would waken 

Bui morn is blushing in the sky ; 

Again the Peri soars above, 
Bearing to Heav'n that precious sigh 

Of pure, self-sacrificing love. 
High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate 

The Elysian palm she soon shall win, 
For the bright Spirit at the gate 

Smil'd as she gave that offering in ; 
And she already hears the trees ' 

Of Eden, with their crystal bells 
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze 

That from the throne of Alla swells , 
And she can see the starry bowls 

That he around that lucid lake, 
Upon whose banks admitted souls 

Their first sweet draught of glory take ! x 

But ah ! e'en Peri's hopes are vain — 

Again the Fates forbade ; again 

Th' immortal barrier clos'd — " not yet," 

The Angel said as, with regret, 

He shut from her that glimpse of glory — 

"True was the maiden, and her story, 

Written in light o'er Alla's head, 

By Seraph eyes shall long be read. 

But Peri, see — the crystal bar 

Of Eden moves not — holier far 

Than e'en this sight the boon must be 

That opes the gates of Heav'n for thee." 

Now, upon Syria's land of roses 2 
Softly the light of eve reposes, 
And like a glory, the broad sun 
Hangs over sainted Lebanon ; 
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, 

And whitens with eternal sleet, 
While summer, in a vale of flowers. 

Is sleeping rosy at his feet. 

To one, who look'd from upper air 
O'er all th' enchanted regions there, 
How beauteous must have been the glow, 
The life, the sparkling from below ! 
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks 
Of golden melons on their banks, 
More golden where the sun-light falls;— 
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls 3 



1 "On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thou- 
sand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined 
to enjoy felicity, drink the crystal wave."— From Cha- 
teaubriand's Description of the Mahometan Paradise, in 
his Beauties of Christianity. 

2 Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from £>uri, 
a beautiful and delicate species of rose for which that 
country has been always famous;— hence, Suristan, the 
Land of Roses. 

3 "The number of lizards I saw one day in the great 
court of the Temple of the Sun at Balbec, amounted to 
many thousands; the ground, the walls, and stones of the 
ruined buildings were covered with thern, "—Bruc*. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



Of rum'd shrines, busy and bright 
As they were all alive with light;— 
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks 
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, 
With their rich restless wings, that gleam 
Variously in the crimson beam 
Of the warm west, — as if inlaid 
With brilliants from the mine, or made 
Of tearless rainbows, such as span 
Th' unclouded skies of Peristan. 
4nd then, the mingling sounds that come, 
Of shepherd's ancient reed, 1 with hum 
Of the wild bees of Palestine, 

Ranqueting through the flowery vales ; — 
And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, 

And woods, so full of nightingales ! 

But nought can charm the luckless Peri ; 
Her soul is sad — her wings are weary — 
Joyless she sees the sun look down 
On that great Temple, once his own, 2 
Whose lonely columns stand sublime, 

Flinging their shadows from on high, 
Like dials, which the wizard, Time, 

Had rais'd to count his ages by ! 

Yet haply there may lie conceal'd 
Beneath those Chambers of the Sun, 

Some amulet of gems anneal'd 

In upper fires, some tabret seal'd 
With the great name of Solomon, 
Which, spell'd by her illumin'd eyes, 

May teach her where, beneath the moon, 

In earth or ocean lies the boon, 

The charm that can restore so soon, 
An erring Spirit to the skies ! 

Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither ;- 

Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, 

Nor have the golden bowers of Even 
In the rich West begun to wither ; — 
When, o'er the vale of Balbec, winging 

Slowly, she sees a child at play, 
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing, 

As rosy and as wild as they ; 
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, 
The beautiful blue damsel-flies, 3 
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems, 
Like winged flowers or flying gems ; — 
And, near the boy, who, tir'd with play, 
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay, 
She saw a wearied man dismount * 

From his hot steed, and on the brink 
Of a small imaret's rustic fount 

Impatient fling him down to drink. • 
Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd 

To the fair child, who fearless sat, 
Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd ' 

Upon a brow more fierce than that, — 
Sullenly fierce — a mixture dire, 
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire ! 



1 "The Syrinx, or Pan's pipe, is still a pastoral instru- 
ment in Syria." — Russel. 

2 The Temple of the Sun at Balbec. 

3 " You behold there a considerable number of a remarka- 
ble species of beautiful insects, the elegance of whose ap- 
pearance and their attiro procui ed for them the name of 
Damsel* "—Sonnini. 



In which the Peri's eye could read 
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ; 
The ruinM maid — the shrine profan'd — 
Oaths broken — and the threshold stain'd 
With blood of guests ! — the^e written, all, 
Black as the damning drops that fall 
From the denouncing Angel's pen, 
Ere mercy weeps them out again ! 

Yet tranquil now that man of crime 
(As if the balmy evening time 
Soften'd his spirit,) look'd and lay, 
Watching the rosy infant's play : — 
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance 
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance 

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze, 
As torches, that have burnt all night 
Through some impure and godless rite, 

Encounter morning's glorious rays. 

But hark ! the vesper-call to prayer, 

As slow the orb of daylight sets, 
Is rising sweetly on the air, 

From Syria's thousand minarets ! 
The boy has started from the bed 
Of flowers, where he had laid his head, 
And down upon the fragrant sod 

Kneels, with his forehead to the south, 
Lisping th' eternal name of God 

From purity's own cherub mouth, 
And looking, while his hands and eyes 
Are lifted to the glowing skies, 
Like a stray babe of Paradise, 
Just lighted on that flowery plain, 
And seeking for its home again ! 
Oh 'twas a sight — that Heav'n — that Child — 
A scene, which might have well beguil'd 
E'en haughty Eblis of a sigh 
For glories lost and peace gone by ! 

And how felt he, the wretched Man, 

Reclining there — while memory ran 

O'er many a year of guilt and strife, 

Flew o'er the dark flooc of his life, 

Nor found one sunny resting-place, 

Nor brought him back one branch of grace ! 

" There was a time," he said, in mild 

Heart-humbled tones — " thou blessed child S 

When young, and haply pure as thou, 

I look'd and pray'd like thee — but now — " 

He hung his head — each nobler aim 

And hope and feeling, which had slept 
From boyhood's hour, that instant came 

Fresh o'er him, and he wept — he wept ! 

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! 

In whose benign, redeeming flow 
Is felt the first, the only sense 

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. 

"There's a drop," said the Peri, "that down fntn 

the moon 
Falls through the withering airs of June 
Upon Egypt's land, 1 of so healing a power 
So balmy a virtue, that e'en in the hour 



1 The Nucta, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Ei«» ( n, 
precisely on Saint John's day, in June, and is supposed to 
have the effect of stopping the plague 



M 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



That drop descends, contagion dies, 
And health reanimates earth and skies ! — 
Oh, is it not tnus, thou man of sin, 

The precious tears of repentance fall ? 
Though foul thy fiery plagues within, 

One heavenly drop hath dispell' d them all.' 

And now — behold him kneeling there ' 
By the child's side, in humble prayer, 
While the same sunbeams shine upon 
The guilty and the guiltless one, 
And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven 
The triumph of a Soul forgiven ! 

'Twas when the golden orb had set, 
While on their knees they linger'd yet, 
There fell a light more lovely far 
Than ever came from sun or star, 
Tpon the tear, that, warm and meek, 
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek : 
To mortal eye this light might seem 
A northern flash, or meteor beam — 
But welf the enraptur'd Peri knew 
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw 
From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear 
Her harbinger of glory near ! 

" Joy, joy for ever ! my task is done — ■ 

The gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won ! 

Oh ! am I not happy ? I am, I am — 
To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad 

Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam, 1 
And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad ! 

Farewell, ye odours of Earth, that die, 

Passing away like a lover's sigh ; — . 

My feast is now the Tooba tree. 2 

Whose scent is the breath of Eternity ! 

" Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone 
In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief,— 
Oh ! what are the brightest that e'er have blown, 
To the Lote-tree, springing by Alla's Throne, 3 

Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf ! 
Joy, joy for ever ! — my task is done — 
The gates are pass'd, and Heav'n is won !" 



" And this," said the Great Chamberlain, "is poetry! 
this flimsy manufacture of the brain, which, in com- 
parison with the lofty and durable monuments of 
genius, is as the gold filigree-work of Zamara beside 
the eternal architecture of Egypt !" After this gor- 
geous sentence, which, with a few more of the same 
kind,FADLADEEN kept by him for rare and important 
occasions, he proceeded to the anatomy of the short 
poem just recited. The lax and easy kind of metre 
in which it was written ought to be denounced, he 
Baid, as one of the leading causes of the alarming 

1 The Country of Delight — the name of a Province in 
.he kingdom of Jinnistan, or Fairy Land, the capital of 
which is called the City of Jewels. Amberabad is another 
of the cities of Jinnistan. 

2 " The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace 
of Mahomet." — Sale's Prelim. Disc. " Touba," says £>' 
Herbrlat, ''signifies beatitude, or eternal happiness." 

'I Mahomet is described, in the 53d chapter of the Koran, 
as having seen the Angel Gabriel, " by the lote-tree, beyond 
which there is no passing; near it is the Garden of Eternal 
Abode." This tree, say the commentators, stands in the 
leventh Heaven on the right hand of the throne of God. 



growth of poetry in our times. If some check wert 
not given to this lawless facility, we should soon be 
overrun by a race of bards as numerous and as shai 
low as the hundred and twenty thousand streams of 
Basra. 1 They who succeeded in this style deserved 
chastisement for their very success; — as warriora 
have been punished, even after gaining a victory, 
because they had taken the liberty of gaining it in an 
irregular or unestablished manner. What, then, was 
to be said to those who failed ? to those who pre- 
sumed, as in the present lamentable instance, to imi- 
tate the license and ease of the bolder sons of song, 
without any of that grace or vigour which gave a 
dignity even to negligence — who, like them, flung the 
jereed 2 carelessly, but not, like them, to the mark ; — 
" and who," said he, raising his voice to excite a pro- 
per degree of wakefulness in his hearers, " contrive 
to appear heavy and constrained in the midst of all 
the latitude they have allowed themselves, like one 
of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, 
who has the ingenuity to move as if her limbs were 
fettered in a pair of the lightest and loosest drawers 
of Masulipatam ." 

It was but little suitable, he continued, to the grave 
march of criticism, to follow this fantastical Peri, of 
whom they had just heard, through all her flights and 
adventures between earth and heaven ; but he could 
not help adverting to the puerile conceitedness of the 
Three Gifts which she is supposed to carry to the 
skies, — a drop of blood, forsooth, a sigh, and a tear ! 
How the first of these articles was delivered into the 
Angel's " radiant hand," he professed himself at a 
loss to discover ; and as to the safe carriage of the 
sigh and the tear, such Peris and such poets were 
beings by far too incomprehensible for him even to 
guess how they managed such matters. "But, in 
short," said he, "it is a waste of time and patience 
to dwell longer upon a thing so incurably frivolous, 
— puny even among its own puny race, and such as 
only the Banyan Hospital for Sick Insects 3 should 
undertake." 

In vain did Lalla Rookh try to soften this inexo 
rable critic ; in vain did she resort to her most elo 
quent common-places, — reminding him that poets 
were a timid and sensitive race, whose sweetness 
was not to be drawn forth, like that of the fragrant 
grass near the Ganges, by crushing and trampling 
upon them ; — that severity often destroyed every 
chance of the perfection which it demanded ; and 
that, after all, perfection was like the Mountain of 
the Talisman, — no one had ever yet reached its sum- 
mit. 4 Neither these gentle axioms, nor the still gentler 
looks with which they were inculcated, could lower 
for one instant the elevation of Fadladeen's eye- 
brows, or charm him into any thing like encourage-" 
ment, or even toleration, of her poet. Toleration, 



1 " It is said, that the rivets or streams of Basra were 
reckoned in the time of Belal ben Abi Borden, and amounted 
to the number of one hundred and twenty thousand streams." 
— Ebn Haukal. 

2 The name of the javelin with which the Easterns exer- 
cise. — See Castellan, Marus des Olkomans, torn. iii. p. 161. 

3 For a description of this Hospital of the Banyans, see 
Parson's Travels, p. 262. 

4 "Near this is a curious hill, called Koh Talism, the 
Mountain of the Talisman, because, according to the tra- 
ditions of the country, no person ever succeeded in gaining 
its summit." — Kinneir. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



65 



indeed, was not among the weaknesses of Fadla 
deen: — he carried the same spirit into matters of 
poetry and of religion, and, though little versed in the 
beauties or sublimities of either, was a perfect master 
of the art of persecution m both. His zeal, too, was 
the same in either pursuit ; whether the game before 
him was pagans or poetasters, — worshippers of cows, 
or writers of epics. 

They had now arrived at the splendid city of La- 
hore, whose mausoleums and shrines, magnificent 
and numberless, where Death seemed to share equal 
honours with Heaven, would have powerfully affected 
the heart and imagination of Lalla Rookh, if feel- 
ings more of this earth had not taken entire posses- 
sion of her already. She was here met by messen- 
gers despatched from Cashmere, who informed her 
that the King had arrived in the Valley, and was him- 
self superintending the sumptuous preparations that 
were making in the Saloons of the Shalimar for her 
reception. The chill she felt on receiving this intel- 
ligence, — which to a bride whose heart was free and 
light would have brought only images of affection 
and pleasure, — convinced her that her peace was gone 
for ever, and that she was in love, irretrievably in love, 
with young Feramorz. The veil, which this passion 
wears at first, had fallen off, and to know that she 
loved was now as painful, as to love without knowing 
it, had been delicious. Feramorz too, — what misery 
would be his, if the sweet hours of intercourse so 
imprudently allowed them should have stolen into 
his heart the same fatal fascination as into hers ; — if, 
notwithstanding her rank, and the modest homage he 
always paid to it, even he should have yielded to the 
influence of those long and happy interviews, where 
music, poetry, the delightful scenes of nature, — all 
tended to bring their hearts close together, and to 
waken by every means that too ready passion, which 
often, like the young of -the desert-bird, is warmed 
jito life by the eyes alone I 1 She saw but one way 
to preserve herself from being culpable as well as 
unhappy ; and this, however painful, she was resolved 
to adopt. Feramorz must no more be admitted to 
her presence. To have strayed so far into the dan- 
gerous labyrinth was wrong, but to linger in it while 
the clew was yet in her hand, would be criminal. 
Though the heart she had to offer to the King of 
Bucharia might be cold and broken, it should at least 
be pure ; and she must only try to forget the short 
vision of happiness she had enjoyed, — like that Ara- 
bian shepherd, who, in wandering into the wilder- 
ness, caught a glimpse of the Gardens of Irim, and 
then lost them again for ever ! 2 

The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore was cele- 
brated in the most enthusiastic manner. The Rajas 
and Omras in her train, who had kept at a certain 
distance during the journey, and never encamped 
nearer to the Princess than was strictly necessary for 
her safeguard, here rode in splendid cavalcade through 
the city, and distributed the most costly presents to 
the crowd. Engines were erected in all the squares, 
which cast forth showers of confectionary among 
the people ; while the artisans, in chariots adorned 



1 "The Arabians believe that the ostriches hatch their 
young by only looking at them."— P. Vanslebe, Relat. d' 
Egypte. 

2 See Sale's Koran, note, vol. ii. p. 484. 



with tinsel and flying streamers, exhibited the badges 
of their respective trades through the streets. Such 
brilliant displays of life and pageantry among the 
palaces, and domes, and gilded minarets of Lahore, 
made the city altogether like a place of enchantment ; 
— particularly on the day when Lalla Rookh set 
out again upon her journey, when she was accom- 
panied to the gate by all the fairest and richest of the 
nobility, and rode along between ranks of beautiful 
boys and girls, who waved plates of gold and silver 
flowers over their heads 1 as they went, and then 
threw them to be gathered by the populace. 

For many days after their departure from Lahore 
a considerable degree of gloom hung over the whole 
party. Lalla Rookh, who had intended to make 
illness her excuse for not admitting the young min- 
strel, as usual, to the pavilion, soon found that to 
feign indisposition was unnecessary; — Fadladeen 
felt the loss of the good road they had hitherto travel- 
led, and was very near cursing Jehan-Guire (of blessed 
memory !) for not having continued his delectable 
alley of trees, 2 at least as far as the mountains of 
Cashmere ; — while the ladies, who had nothing now 
to do all day but to be fanned by peacocks' feathera 
and listen to Fadladeen, seemed heartily weary of 
the life they led, and, in spite of all the Great Cham- 
berlain's criticism, were tasteless enough to wish for 
the poet again. One evening, as they were proceed- 
ing to their place of rest for the night, the Princess, 
who, for the freer enjoyment of the air, had mount- 
ed her favourite Arabian palfrey, in passing by a small 
grove, heard the notes of a lute from within its leaves, 
and a voice, which she but too well knew, singing the 
following words : — 

Tell me not of joys above, 
If that world can give no bliss, 

Truer, happier than the Love 

Which enslaves our souls in this ! 

Tell me not of Houris' eyes ; — 
Far- from me their dangerous glow 

If those looks that light the skies 
Wound like some that burn below. 

Who that feels v"hat Love is here, 
All its falsehood — all its pain — 

Would, for e'en Elysium's sphere, * 
Risk the fatal dream again ? 

Who, that midst a desert's heat 

Sees the waters fade away, 
Would not rather die than meet 

Streams again as false as they ? 

The tone of melancholy defiance in which these 
words were uttered, went to Lalla Rcokh's heart, 
— and, as she reluctantly rode on, she could not help 
feeling it as a sad but sweet certainty, that Feramorz 
was to the full as enamoured and miserable as her- 
self. 

The place where they encamped that evening waa 
the first delightful spot they had come to since they 
left Lahore. On one side of them was a grove full 
of small Hindoo temples, and planted with the most 



1 Ferishta. 

2 The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guire from 
Agra to Lahore, planted with trees on each side. 



56 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



graceful trees of the East ; where the tamarind, the 
cassia, and the silken plantains of Ceylon were min- 
gled in rich contrast with the high fan-like foliage of 
the palmyra, — that favourite tree of the luxurious bird 
that lights up the chambers of its nest with fire-flies. 1 
In the middle of the lawn, where the pavilion stood, 
there was a tank surrounded by small mangoe trees, 
on the clear cold waters of which floated multitudes 
of the beautiful red lotus ; while at a distance stood 
the ruins of a strange and awful-looking tower, which 
seemed old enough to have been the temple of some 
religion no longer known, and which spoke the voice 
of desolation in the midst of all that bloom and love- 
liness. This singular ruin excited the wonder and 
conjectures of all. Lalla Rookh guessed in vain, 
and the all-pretending Fadladeen, who had never 
till this journey been beyond the precincts of Delhi, 
was proceeding most learnedly to show that he knew 
nothing whatever about the matter, when one of the 
ladies suggested, that perhaps Feramorz could 
satisfy their curiosity. They were now approaching 
his native mountains, and this tower might be a relic 
of some of those dark superstitions, which had pre- 
vailed in that country before the light of Islam dawned 
upon it. The Chamberlain, who usually preferred 
his own ignorance to the best knowledge that any one 
else could give him, was by no means pleased with 
this officious reference ; and the Princess, too, was 
about to interpose a faint word of objection ; but, be- 
fore either of them could speak, a slave was despatch- 
ed for Feramorz, who, in a very few minutes, 
appeared before them, — looking so pale and unhappy 
in Lalla Rookh's eyes, that she already repented 
of her cruelty in having so long excluded him. 

That venerable tower, he told them, was the re- 
mains of an ancient Fire-Temple, built by those 
Ghebers or Persians of the old religion, who, many 
hundred years since, had fled hither from their Arab 
conquerors, preferring liberty and their altars in a 
foreign land to the alternative of apostacy or persecu- 
tion in their own. It was impossible, he added, not 
to feel interested in the many glorious but unsuccess- 
ful struggles, which had been made by these original 
natives of Persia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted 
conquerors. Like their own Fire in the Burning 
Field at Bakou, 2 when suppressed in one place, they 
had but broken out with fresh flame in another ; and, 
as a native of Cashmere, of that fair and Holy Val- 
ley, which had in the same manner become the prey 
of strangers, and seen her ancient shrines and native 
princes swept away before the march of her intolerant 
invaders, he felt a sympathy, he owned, with the suf- 
ferings of the persecuted Ghebers, which every monu- 
ment like this before them but tended more powerfully 
to awaken. 

It was the first time that Feramorz had ever ven- 
tured upon so much prose before Fadladeen, and it 
may easily be conceived what effect such prose as this 
must have produced upon that most orthodox and 
most pagan-hating personage. He sat for some mi- 
nutes aghast, ejaculating only at intervals, " Bigoted 
conquerors ! — sympathy with Fire-worshippers !" — 
while Feramorz, happy to take advantage of this 



almost speechless horror of the Chamberlain, pro. 
ceeded to say that he knew a melancholy story, con- 
nected with the events of one of those brave struggles 
of the Fire-worshippers of Persia against their Arab 
masters, which, if the evening was not too far ad« 
vanced, he should have much pleasure in being 
allowed to relate to the Princess. It was impossible 
for Lalla Rookh to refuse ; — he had never before 
looked half so animated, and when he spoke of the 
Holy Valley his eyes had sparkled, she thought, like 
the talismanic characters on the scimitar of Solomon. 
Her consent was therefore readily granted, and while 
Fadladeen sat in unspeakable dismay, expecting 
treason and abomination in every line, the poet thus 
began his story of — 

THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 



1 The Baya, or Indian Gross-beak. — Sir TV. Jones. 

2 The " Agar ardens" described by Kempfer, Amcenitat. 
Exot. 



'Tis moonlight over Oman's Sea; 1 

Her banks of pearl and palmy isles 
Bask in the night-beam beauteously, 

And her blue waters sleep in smiles. 
'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's 2 walls, 
And through her Emir's porphyry halls, 
Where, some hours since, was heard the swell 
Of trumpet and the clash of zel, 3 
Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell ; — 
The peaceful sun, whom better suits 

The music of the bulbul's nest, 
Or the light touch of lovers' lutes, 

To sing him to his golden rest ! 
All hush'd — there's not a breeze in motion , 
The shore is silent as the ocean. 
If zephyrs come, so light they come, 

Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven ;— 
The wind-tower on the Emir's dome 4 

Can hardly win a breath from heaven. 
E'en he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps • 

Calm, while a nation round him weeps ; 
While curses load the air he breathes, 
And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths 
Are starting to avenge the shame 
His race had brought on Iran's 5 name. 
Hard, heartless Chief, unmov'd alike 
Mid eyes that weep and swords that strike ;-— 
One of that saintly, murderous brood, 

To carnage and the Koran given, 
Who think through unbelievers' blood 

Lies their directest path to heaven: 
One, who will pause and kneel unshod 

In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd, 
To mutter o'er some text of God 

Engraven on his reeking sword ; 6 — 
Nay, who can coolly note the line, 
The letter of those words divine, 
To which his blade, with searching art, 
Had sunk into its victim's heart ! 



1 The Persian Gulf, sometimes so called, which separate! 
the shores of Persia and Arabia. 

2 The present Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of 
the Gulf. 

3 A Moorish instrument of music. 

4 " At Gombaroon and other places in Persia, they hava 
towers for the purpose of catching the wind, and cooang 
the houses." — Le Bruyn- 

5 "Iran is the true general name ofthe empire of Persia." 
— Jlsiat. Res. Disc. 5. 

6 "On the blades of their scimitars some verse from the 
Koran is usually inscribed." — Russel. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



Just Alla ! what must be thy look, 

When such a wretch before thee stands 
Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book, 

Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands, 
And wresting from its page sublime 
His creed of lust and hate and crime ? 
E'en as those bees of Trebizond, — 

Which, from the sunniest hours that glad 
With their pure smile the gardens round, 

Draw venom forth that drives men mad I 1 
Never did fierce Arabia send 

A satrap forth more direly great ; 
Never was Iran doom'd to bend 

Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. 
Her throne had fall'n — her pride was crush' d — 
Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd 
In their own land — no more their own, — 
To crouch beneath a stranger's throne. 
Her towers, where Mithra once had burn'd, 
To Moslem shrines — oh shame ! were turn'd, 
Where slaves, converted by the sword, 
Their mean, apostate worship pour'd, 
And curs'd the faith their sires ador'd. 
Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill, 
O'er all this wreck high buoyant still 
With hope and vengeance : — hearts that yet, 

Like gems, in darkness issuing rays 
They've treasur'd from the sun that's set, 

Beam all the light of long-lost days ! — 
And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow 

To second all such hearts can dare ; 
As he shall know, well, dearly know, 

Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there, 
Tranquil as if his spirit lay 
Becalm'd in Heaven's approving ray ! 
Sleep on — for purer eyes than thine 
Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine. 
Sleep on, and be thy rest unmov'd 

By the white moonbeam's dazzling power : 
None but the loving and the lov'd 

Should be awake at this sweet hour. 



And see — where, high above those rocks 

That o'er the deep their shadows fling, 
Yon turret stands ; where ebon locks, 

As glossy as a heron's wing 

Upon the turban of a King, 2 
Hang from the lattice, long and wild. — 
'Tis she, that Emir's blooming child, 
All truth, and tenderness, and grace, 
Though born of such ungentle race ; 
An image of Youth's radiant Fountain 
Springing in a desolate mountain ! 3 
Oh what a pure and sacred thing 

Is beauty, curtain'd from the sight 
Of the gross world, illumining 

One only mansion with her light ! 
Unseen by man's disturbing eye, — 

The flower, that blooms beneath the sea 
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie 



1 " There is a kind of Rhododendros about. Trebizond, 
whose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence 
drives people mad." — Tournefort. 

2 "Their kings wear plumes of black heron's feathers 
open the right side, as a badge of sovereignty." — Hanway. 

3 "The Fountain of Youth, by a Mahometan tradition, 
ia situated in some dark region of the East." — Richardson. 

H 



Hid in more chaste obscurity ! 
So, Hinda, have thy face and mind, 
Like holy mysteries, lain enshrin'd. 
And oh what transport for a lover 

To lift the veil that shades them o'er !— 
Like those, who, all at once, discover 

In the lone deep some fairy shore, 

Where mortal never trod before, 
And sleep and wake in scented airs 
No lip had ever breath'd but theirs ! 

Beautiful are the maids that glide 

On summer-eves, through Yemen's 1 dales; 
And bright the glancing looks they hide 

Behind fheir litters' roseate veils ; — 
And brides, as delicate and fair 
As the white jasmin'd flowers they wear, 
Hath Yemen in her blissful clime, 

Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower, 
Before their mirrors count the time, 

And grow still lovelier every hour. 
But never yet hath bride or maid 

In Araby's gay Harams smil'd, 
Whose boasted brightness would not fade 

Before Al Hassan's blooming child. 

Light as the angel shapes that bless 
An infant's dream, yet not the less 
Rich in all woman's loveliness ; — 
With eyes so pure, that from their ray 
Dark Vice would turn abash'd away, 
Blinded, like serpents when they gaze 
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze ! 2 — 
Yet, fill'd with all youth's sweet desires, 
Mingling the meek and vestal fires 
Of other worlds with all the bliss, 
The fond, weak tenderness of this ! 
A soul, too, more than half divine, 

Where, through some shades of earthly feeling, 
Religion's soften'd glories shine, 

Like light through summer foliage stealing, 
Shedding a glow of such mild hue, 
So warm, and yet so shadowy too, 
As makes the very darkness there 
More beautiful than light elsewhere ! 
Such is the maid, who, at this hour, 

Hath risen from her restless sleep, 
And sits alone in that high bower, 

Watching the still and shining deep. 
Ah ! 'twas not thus, — with tearful eyes 

And beating heart, — she us'd to gaze 
On the magnificent earth and skies, 

In her own land, in happier days. 
Why looks she now so anxious down 
Among those rocks, whose rugged frown 

Blackens the mirror of the deep ? 
Whom waits she all this lonely night ? 

Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep, 
For man to scale that turret's height ! — 
So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire. 

When high, to catch the cool night air 
After the day-beam's withering fire, 3 



1 Arabia Felix. 

2 " They say that if a snake or serpent fix his eyes on tn« 
lustre of those stones (emeralds,) he immediately becomes 
blind." — Jhmed ben J3bdalaziz, Treatise on Jewels. 

3 " At Gombaroon and the Isle of Ormus it is soipetimeg 



lfe= 



58 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



He built her bower of freshness there, 
And had it deck'd with costliest skill, 

And fondly thought it safe as fair : — 
Think, reverend dreamer ! think so still, 

Nor wake to learn what Love can dare- 
Love, all-defying Love, who sees 
No charm in trophies won with ease ; — ■ 
Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss 
Are pluck'd on Danger's precipice ! 
Bolder than they, who dare not dive 

For pearls, but when the sea 's at rest, 

ve, in the tempest most alive, 

Hath ever held that pearl the best 
He finds beneath the stormiest water ! « 
Yes — Araby's unrivall'd daughter, 
Though high that tower, that rock-way rude, 

There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek, 
Would climb th' untrodden solitude 

Of Ararat's tremendous peak, 1 
And think its steeps, though dark and dread, 
Heav'n's path-ways, if to thee they led ! 
E'en now thou seest the flashing spray, 
That lights his oar's impatient way : 
E'en now thou hear'st the sudden shock 
Of his swift bark against the rock, 
And stretchest down thy arms of snow, 
As if to lift him from below ! 
Like her to whom, at dead of night, 
The bridegroom, with his locks of light, 2 
Came, in the flush of love and pride, 
And scal'd the terrace of his bride ; — 
When, as she saw him rashly spring, 
And mid-way up in danger cling, 
She flung him down her long black hair, 
Exclaiming, breathless, " There, love, there !" 
And scarce did manlier nerve uphold 

The hero Zal in that fond hour, 
Than wings the youth, who, fleet and bold 

Now climbs the rocks to Hinda's bower. 
See — light as up their granite steeps 

The rock-goats of Arabia clamber. 3 
Fearless from crag to crag he leaps, 

And now is in the maiden's chamber. 

She loves — but knows not whom she loves, 

Nor what his race, nor whence he came ;— 
Like one who meets, in Indian groves, 

Some beauteous bird, without a name, 
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, 
From jsles in the undiscover'd seas, 
To show his plumage for a day 
To wondering eyes, and wing away ! 
Will he thus fly — her nameless lover ? 

Alia forbid ! 'twas by a moon 
As fair as this, while singing over 

Some ditty to her soft Kanoon, 4 



Bo hot, that the people are obliged to lie all day in the wa- 
.er." — Marco Polo. 

1 This mountain is generally supposed to be inaccessible. 

2 In one of the books of the Shah Nanieh, when Zal (a 
celebrated hero of Persia, remarkable for his white hair) 
conies to the terrace of his mistress Rodahver at night, she 
lets down her long tresses to assist him in his ascent; — he, 
however, manages it in a less romantic way, by fixing his 
Crook in a projecting beam. — See Champion's Ferdosi. 

3 "On the lofty hills of Arabia Petraj are rock-goats." — 
Micbuhr. 

4 "Canun, espece de psalterion, avec des cordes de boyaux; 



Alone, at this same, watching hour, 

She first beheld his radiant eyes 
Gleam through the lattice of the bower, 

Where nightly now they mix their sigha ; 
And thought some spirit of the air 
(For what could waft a mortal there ?) 
Was pausing on his moonlight way 
To listen to her lonely lay ! 
This fancy ne'er hath left her mind : 

And though, when terror's swoon had past, 
She saw a youth, of mortal kind, 

Before her in obeisance cast, — 
Yet often since, when he hath spoken 
Strange, awful words, — and gleams have broken 
From his dark eyes, too bright to bear, 

Oh ! she hath fear'd her soul was given 
To some unhallow'd child of air, 

Some erring Spirit, cast from Heaven, 
Like those angelic youths of old, 
Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould, 
Bewilder'd left the glorious skies, 
And lost their Heaven for woman's eyes ! 

Fond girl ! nor fiend, nor angel he, 
Who woos thy young simplicity ; 
But one of earth's impassion'd sons, 

As warm in love, as fierce in ire, 
As the best heart whose current runs 

Full of the Day-God's living fire ! 

But quench'd to-night that ardour seems, 

And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow : 
Never before, but in her dreams, 

Had she beheld him pale as now : 
And those were dreams of troubled sleep, 
From which 'twas joy to wake and weep 
Visions that will not be forgot, 

But sadden every waking scene, 
Like warning ghosts, that leave the spot 

All wither'd where they once have been ! 

" How sweetly," said the trembling maid, 
Of her own gentle voice afraid, 
So long had they in silence stood, 
Looking upon that tranquil flood — 
KHow sweetly does the moonbeam smile 
To-night upon yon leafy isle ! 
Oft, in my fancy's wanderings, 
I've wish'd that little isle had wings, 
And we, within its fairy bowers, 

Were wafted off to seas unknown, 
Where not a pulse should beat but ours, 

And we might live, love, die alone 
Far from the cruel and the cold — 

Where the bright eyes of angeis only 
Should come around us to behold 

A paradise so pure and lonely ! 
Would this be world enough for thee ?" — 
Playful she turn'd, that he might see 

The passing smile her cheek put on ; 
But when she mark'd how mournfully 

His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ; 
And bursting into heart-felt tears, 
"Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears 



les dames en towchent dans le serrail, avec des decailles 
armees de pointes de coco." — Tuderijii, translated by De 
Cournan. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



My dreams have boded all too right — 
We part — for ever part — to-night ! 
I knew, I knew it could not last — 
'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past ! 
Oh ! ever thus, from childhood's hour, 

I've seen my fondest hopes decay ; 
I never lov'd a tree or flower, 

But 'twas the first to fade away. 
I never nurs'd a dear gazelle, 

To glad me with its soft black eye, 
But when it came to know me well, 

And love me, it was sure to die ! 
Now too — the joy most like divine, 

Of all I ever dreamt or knew, 
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine — 

Oh misery ! must I lose that too ? 
Yet go — on peril's brink we meet ; — 

Those frightful rocks — that treacherous sea- 
No, never come again — though sweet, . 

Though heaven — it may be death to thee. 
Farewell — and blessings on thy way, 

Where'er thou goest, beloved stranger ! 
Better to sit and watch that ray, 
And think thee safe, though far away, 

Than have thee near me, and in danger !" 

" Danger ! — oh, tempt me not to boast," 
The youth exclaim'd — " thou little know'st 
What he can brave, who, born and nurst 
In Danger's paths, has dar'd her worst ! 
Upon whose ear the signal-word 

Of strife and death is hourly breaking ; 
Who sleeps with head upon the sword 

His fever'd had must grasp in waking ! 
Danger ! — " 

" Say on — thou fear'st not then, 
And we may meet — oft meet again ?" 

" Oh ! look not so — beneath the skies 

I now fear nothing but those eyes. 

If aught on earth could charm or force 

My spirit from its destin'd course, — 

If aught could make this soul forget 

The bond to which its seal is set, 

'Twould be those eyes ; — they, only they, 

Could melt that sacred seal away ! 

But no — 'tis fix'd — my awful doom 

Is fix'd — on this side of the tomb 

We meet no more — why, why did Heaven 

Mingle two souls that earth has riven, 

Has rent asunder wide as ours ? 

Oh, Arab maid ! as soon the Powers 

Of I ight and Darkness may combine, 

As 1 be link'd with thee or thine ! 

Thy father " 

" Holy Alla save 

His gray-head from that lightning- glance ! 
Thou know'st him not — he loves the brave 

Nor lives there under heaven's expanse 
One who would prize, would worship thee, 
And thy bold spirit, more than he. 
Oft when, in childhood, 1 have play'd 

With the bright falchion by his side, 
r 've heard him swear his lisping maid 

fn time should be a warrior's bride. 



And still, whene'er, at Haram hours, 
I take him cool sherbets and flowers, 
He tells me, when in playful mood, 

A hero shall my bridegroom be, 
Since maids are best in battle woo'd, 

And won with shouts of victory ! 
Nay, turn not from me — thou alone 
Art form'd to make both hearts thy own. 
Go — join his sacred ranks — thou know'st 

Th' unholy strife these Persians wage :— 
Good Heav'n that frown ! — e'en now thou glow st 
With more than mortal warrior's rage. 
Haste to the camp by morning's light, 
And, when that sword is rais'd in fight, 
Oh, still remember Love and I 
Beneath its shadow trembling lie ! 
One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire, 
Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire 

Abhors " 

" Hold, hold — thy words are death — " 
The stranger cried, as wild he flung 
His mantle back, and show'd beneath 

The Gheber belt that round him clung. 1 
" Here, maiden look — weep — blush to see 
All that thy sire abhors in me ! 
Yes — Jam of that impious race, 

Those Slaves of Fire, who, morn and even, 
Hail their Creator's dwelling-place 

Among the living lights of heaven ! 2 
Yes — I am of that outcast few, 
To Iran and to vengeance true, 
Who curse the hour your Arabs came 
To desolate our shrines of flame, 
And swear, before God's burning eye, 
To break our country's chains, or die 
Thy bigot sire — nay, tremble not — 

He who gave birth to those dear eyes, 
With me is sacred as the spot 

From which our fires of worship rise ! 
But know — 'twas he I sought that night, 

When, from my watch-boat on the sea, 
I caught this turret's glimmering light, 
And up the rude rocks desperately 
Rush'd to my prey — thou know'st the rest— 
I climb'd the gory vulture's nest, 
And found a trembling dove within ; — 
Thine, thine the victory — thine the sin — 
If Love hath made one thought his own, 
That Vengeance claims first — last — alone ! 
Oh ! had we never, never met, 
Or could this heart e'en now forget 
How link'd, how bless'd we might have been, 
Had Fate not frown'd so dark between, 
Hadst thou been born a Persian maid, 

In neighbouring valleys had we dwelt, 
Through the same fields in childhood play'd, 

At the same kindling altar knelt, — 
Then, then, while all those nameless ties, 



1 "They [the Ghebers] lay so much stress on the cusheo 
or girdle, as not. to dare to be an instant without it."— 
Grose's Voyage. " Le jeune homme nia d'abord la chose; 
nuiis, ayant ete depouille de sa robe, et la large ceinlure 
qu'll portaitcommeGhebr," etc. etc. — U' Herbelot, art. Ag 
duani. 

•2 " They suppose the Throne of the Almighty is seated in 
the sun, and hence their worship of that luminary." — Ha,* 
way. 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



In which the charm of Country lies, 
Had round our hearts been hourly spun, 
Till Iran's cause and thine were one ; — 
While in thy lute's awakening sigh 
I heard the voice of days gone by, 
And saw in every smile of thine 
Returning hours of glory shine ! — 
While the wrong'd Spirit of our Land 

Liv'd, look'd, and spoke her wrongs through thee- 
God ! who could then this sword withstand ? 

Its very flash were victory ! 
But now — estrang'd, divorc'd for ever, 
Far as the grasp of Fate can sever ; 
Our only ties what Love has wove, — 

Faith, friends, i.ud country, sunder'd wide ; — 
And then, then only, true to love, 

When false to all that's dear beside ! 
Thy father Iran's deadliest foe — 
Thyself, perhaps, e'en now — but no — 
Hate never look'd so lovely yet ! 

No — sacred to thy soul will be 
The land of him who could forget 

All but that bleeding land for thee ! 
When other eyes shall see, unmov'd, 

Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, 
Thou'lt think how well one Gheber lov'd, 

And for his sake thou'lt weep for all ! 

But look " 

With sudden start he turn'd 

And pointed to the distant wave, 
Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd 

Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave ; 
And fiery darts, at intervals, 1 

Flew up all sparkling from the main, 
As if each star that nightly falls, 

Were shooting back to heaven again. 

" My signal-lights ! — I must away— 

Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay. 

Farewell — sweet life ! thou cling'st in vain— 

Now — Vengeance !— I am thine again." 

Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd 

Nor look'd — but from the lattice dropp'd 

Down mid the pointed crags beneath, 

As if he fled from love to death. 

While pale and mute young Hinda stood, 

Nor mov'd, till in the silent flood 

A momentary plunge below 

Startled her from her trance of woe ; 

Shrieking she to the lattice flew, — 
" I come — I come — if in that tide 

Thou sleep'st to-night — I'll sleep there too, 

In death's cold wedlock by thy side. 

Oh ! I would ask no happier bed 

Than the chill wave my love lies under ;— 

Sweeter to rest together dead, 

Far sweeter, than to live asunder !" 

But no — their hour is not yet come- 
Again she sees his pinnace fly, 

Wafting him fleetly to his home, 

Where'er that ili-starr'd home may he; 



1 "The Mamelukes that were in the other boat, when it 
was dark, used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the 
air, which in some measure resembled lightning or falling 
itai«."~ -Baumgarten. 



And calm and smooth it seem'd to win 
Its moonlight way before the wind, 

As if it bore all peace within, 

Nor left one breaking heart behind. 



The Princess, whose heart was sad enough already 
could have wished that Feramorz had chosen a less 
melancholy story ; as it is only to the happy that tears 
are a luxury. Her ladies, however, were by no 
means sorry that love was once more the Poet's 
theme ; for, when he spoke of love, they said, his 
voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of 
that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of 
the musician, Tan-Sein. 

Their road all the morning had lain through a very 
dreary country ; — through valleys, covered with a low 
bushy jungle, where, in more than one place, the 
awful signal of the bamboo staff, with the white flag 
at its top, reminded the traveller that in that very 
spot the tiger had made some human creature his vic- 
tim. It was therefore with much pleasure that they 
arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and en- 
camped under one of those holy trees, whose smooth 
columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them 
for natural temples of religion. Beneath the shade, 
some pious hands had erected pillars ornamented 
with the most beautiful porcelain, which now sup- 
plied the use of mirrors to the young maidens, as they 
adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. 
Here while, as usual, the Princess sat listening 
anxiously, with Fadladeen in one of his loftiest 
moods of criticism by her side, the young Poet, lean- 
ing against a branch of the tre<» thus continued his 
story : — 

The morn hath risen clear and calm, 

And o'er the Green Sea 1 palely shines, 
Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm, 

And fighting Kishma's 2 amber vines. 
Fresh smell the shores of Araby, 
While breezes from the Indian sea 
Blow round Selama's 3 sainted cape, 

And curl the shining flood beneath, — 
Whose waves are rich with many a grape, 

And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath, 
Which pious seamen, as they pass'd, 
Had tow'rd that holy headland cast — 
Oblations to the Genii there 
For gentle skies and breezes fair ! 
The nightingale now bends her flight 
From the high trees, where all the night 

She sung so sweet, with none to listen . 
And hides her from the morning star 

Where thickets of pomegranate glisten 
In the clear dawn, — bespangled o'er 

With dew, whose night-drops would not stain 



1 The Persian Gulf. — " To dive for pearls in the Green 
Sea, or Persian Gulf." — Sir W. Jones. 

2 Islands in the Gulf. 

3 Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at tho 
entrance of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom 
" The Indians, when they pass the promontory, throw 
cocoa-nuts, fruits, or flowers into the sea to secure a pro 
pitious voyage." — Morier. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



The best and brightest scimetar 1 
That ever youthful Sultan wore 
On the first morning of his reign ! 

And see — the Sun himself! — on wings 
Of glory up the East he springs. 
Angel of Light ! who, from the time 
Those heavens began their march sublime, 
Hath first of all the starry choir 
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire ! 

Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere, 
When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn'd 
To meet that eye where'er it burn'd ? — 

When, from the banks of Bendemeer 
To the nut-groves o* Samarcand 
Thy temples flam'd o'er all the land ? 
Where are they ? ask the shades of them 

Who, on Cadessia's 2 bloody plains, 
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem 
From Iran's broken diadem, 

And bind her ancient faith in chains : — 
Ask the poor exile, cast alone 
On foreign shores, unlov'd, unknown, 
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates, 3 

Or on the snowy Mossian mountains, 
Far from his beauteous land of dates, 

Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains ! 
Yet happier so than if he trod 
His own belov'd but blighted sod, 
Beneath a despot stranger's nod ! — 
Oh ! he would rather houseless roam 

Where Freedom and his God may lead, 
Than be the sleekest slave at home 

That crouches to the conqueror's creed ! 
Is Iran's pride then gone for ever, 

Quench' d with the flame in Mithra's caves ?- 
No— she has sons that never — never — 

Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves, 

While heaven has light or earth has graves. 
Spirits of fire, that brood not long, 
But flash resentment back for wrong ; 
And hearts, where, slow but deep, the seeds 
Of vengeance ripen into deeds ; 
Till, in some treacherous hour of calm, 
They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm, 4 
Whose buds fly open with a sound 
That shakes the pigmy forests round ! 

Yes, Emir ! he, who scal'd that tower, 

And, had he reach'd thy slumbering breast, 
Had taught thee, in a Gheber's power 

How safe e'en tyrants heads may rest- 
Is one of many, brave as he, 
Who loathe thy haughty race and thee ; 



1 In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, 
M the dew is of such a pure nature, that, if the brightest 
scimitar should be exposed to it all night, it would not re- 
ceive the least rust." 

2 The place where the Persians were finally defeated by 
Jie Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed. 

3 Derbend.— " Les Tures appellent cette ville Demir Capi, 
Porte de Fer; ce sont les Caspiae Portae des anciens."— Z>' 
Herbelot. 

4 The Talpot or Talipot tree.— "This beautiful palm- 
tree, which grows in the heart of the forests, may be classed 
among the loftiest trees, and becomes still higher when on 
the point of bursting forth from its leafy summit. The sheath 
which then envelopes the flower is very large, and, when it 
bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon." — 
Thunberg 



Who, though they know the strife is vain— 

Who, though they know the riven chain 

Snaps but to enter in the heart 

Of him who rends its links apart, 

Yet dare the issue — blest to be 

E'en for one bleeding moment free, 

And die in pangs of liberty ! 

Thou know'st them well — 'tis some moons since 

Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags, 
Thou satrap of ^a bigot Prince ! 

Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags ; 
Yet here, e'en here, a sacred band, 
Ay, in the portal of that land 
Thou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own, 
Their spears across thy path have thrown \ 
Here — ere the winds half wing'd thee o'er- 
RebeUion brav'd thee from the shore. 

Rebellion ! foul, dishonouring word, 

Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd 
The holiest cause that tongue or sword 

Of mortal ever lest or gain'd. 
How many a spirit, born to bless, 

Hath sunk beneath that withering name, 
Whom but a day's, an hour's, success 

Had wafted to eternal fame ! 
As exhalations when they burst 
From the warm earth, if chill' d at first, 
If check'd in soaring from the plain, 
Darken to fogs and sink again ; — 
But if they once triumphant spread 
Their wings above the mountain-head, 
Become enthron'd in upper air, 
And turn to sun-bright glories there ! 

And who is he, that wields the might 

Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink, 
Before whose sabre's dazzling light 

The eyes of Yemen's warriors wink? 
Who comes embower'd in the spears 
Of Kerman's hardy mountaineers?— 
Those mountaineers, that, truest, last, 

Cling to their country's ancient rites, 
As if that God whose eyelids cast 

Their closing gleam on Iran's heights, 
Among her snowy mountains threw 
The last fight of his worship too ! 

'Tis Hafed — name of fear, whose sound 
Chills like the muttering of a charm ; — 

Shout but that awful name around, 
And palsy shakes the manliest arm. 

'Tis Hafed, most accurst and dire 

(So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire) 

Of all the rebel Sons of Fire ! 

Of whose malign, tremendous power 

The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour 

Such tales of fearful wonder tell. 

That each affrighted sentinel 

Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, 

Lest Hafed in the midst should rise ! 

A man, they say, of monstrous birth, 

A mingled race of flame and earth, 

Sprung from those old, enchanted kings,' 
Who in their fairy helms, of yore, 



1 Tahmuras, and other ancient kings of Persia, whose 
adventures in Fairy Land among the Peris and Dives may 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



A feather from the mystic wings 

Of the Simoorgh resistless wore ; 
And gifted by the Fiends of Fire, 
Who groan to see their shrines expire, 
. With charms that, all in vain withstood, 
Would drown the Koran's light in blood ! 

Such were the tales that won belief, 

And such the colouring Fancy gave 
To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,— 

One who, no more than mortal brave, 
Fought for the land his soul ador'd, 

For happy homes, and altars free, — 
His only talisman, the sword, 

His only spell-word, Liberty ! 
One of that ancient hero line, 
Along whose glorious current shine 
Names that have sanctified their blood ; 
As Lebanon's small mountain flood 
Is rendered holy by the ranks 
Of sainted cedars on its banks ! * 
'Twas not for him to crouch the knee 
Tamely to Moslem tyranny ; — 
'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast 
In the bright mould of ages past, 
Whose melancholy spirit, fed 
With all the glories of the dead, 
Though fram'd for Iran's happiest years, 
Was born among her chains and tears ! 
Twas not for him to swell the crowd 
Of slavish heads, that, shrinking, bow'd 
Before the Moslem, as he pass'd, 
Like shrubs beneath the poison blast — 
No — far he fled, indignant fled 

The pageant of his country's shame ; 
While every tear her children shed 

Fell on his soul like drops of flame ; 
And as a lover hails the dawn 

Of a first smile, so welcom'd he • 
The sparkle of the first sword drawn 
For vengeance and for liberty ! 

But vain was valour — vain the flower 
Of Kerman, in that deathful hour, 
Against Al Hassan's whelming power. 
In vain they met him, helm to helm, 
Upon the threshold of that realm 
He came in bigot pomp to sway, 
And with their corpses block'd his way— 
[n vain — for every lance they rais'd, 
Thousands around the conqueror blaz'd ; 
For every arm that lin'd their shore, 
Myriad? of slaves were wafted o'er — 
A bloody, bold, and countless crowd, 
Before whose swarms as fast they bow'd 
As dates beneath the locust cloud ! 

There stood — but one short league away 
From old Harmozia's sultry bay — 
A rocky mountain, o'er the Sea 
Of Oman beetling awfully : 



be found in Richardson's curious Dissertation. The griffin 
Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her breast for 
Talmuras, with which he adorned his helmet, and trans- 
mitted them afterwards to his descendants. 

1 This rivulet, says Dandini, is called the Holy River, 
from the " cedax-Bdints," among which it rises. 



A last and solitary link 

Of those stupendous chains that reach 
From the broad Caspian's reedy brink 

Down winding to the Green Sea bead 
Around its base the bare rocks stood, 
Like naked giants, in the flood, 

As if to guard the Gulf across ; 
While, on its peak, that brav'd the sky, 
A ruin'd temple tower'd, so high 

That oft the sleeping albatross 1 
Struck the wild ruins with her wing, 
And from her cloud-rock'd slumbering 
Started — to find man's dwelling there 
In her own silent fields of air ! 
Beneath, terrific caverns gave 
Dark welcome to each stormy wave 
That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in 5— 
And such the strange, mysterious din 
At times throughout those caverns roll'd ;- 
And such the fearful wonders told 
Of restless sprites imprison' d there, 
That bold were Moslem, who would dare, 
At twilight hour, to steer his skiff 
Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff. 

On the land side, those towers sublime, 
That seem'd above the grasp of Time, 
Were sever'd from the haunts of men 
By a wide, deep, and wizard glen, 
So fathomless, so full of gloom, 

No eye could pierce the void between ; 
It seem'd a place where Gholes might come 
With their foul banquets from the tomb, 

And in its caverns feed unseen. 
Like distant thunder, from below, 

The sound of many torrents came ; 
Too deep for eye or ear to know 
If 'twere the sea's imprison'd flow, 

Or floods of ever-restless flame. 
For each ravine, each rocky spire 
Of that vast mountain stood on fire ; 2 
And, though for ever past the days 
When God was worshipp'd i" the blaze 
That from its lofty altar shone, — 
Though fled the Priests, the votaries gone, 
Still did the mighty flame burn on 
Through chance and change, through good and dJ 
Like its own God's eternal will, 
Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable ! 

Thither the vanquish'd Hafed led 

His little army's last remains ; — 
"Welcome, terrific glen !" he said, 
" Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread. 

Is heaven to him who flies from chains l" 
O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known 
To him and to his Chiefs alone, 
They cross'd the chasm and gain'd the towers ;— 
"This home," he cried, "at least is ours — 
Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymns 

Of Moslem triumph o'er our head ; 
Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs 

To quiver to the Moslem's tread ; 



1 These birds sleep in the air. They are most common 
about the Cape of Good-Hope. 

2 The Ghebers generally built their temples over subter- 
raneous fires. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



63 



Stretch' d on this rock, while vulture's beaks 
Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks, 
Here, — happy that no*tyrant's eye 
Gloats on our torments — we may die !' 

Twas night when to those towers they came 5 
And gloomily the fitful flame, 
That from the ruin'd altar broke, 
Glar'd on his features, as he spoke : — 
" 'Tis o'er — what men could do, we've done : 
If Iran will look tamely on, 
And see her priests, her warriors driven , 

Before a sensual bigot's nod, 
A wretch, who takes his lusts to heaven, 

And makes a pander of his God ! 
If her proud sons, her high-born souls, 

Men, in whose veins — oh last dis^. ice ! 
The blood of Zal, and Rustam, 1 rolls,— 

It they will court this upstart race, 
And turn from Mithra's ancient ray, 
To kneel at shrines of yesterday ! 
If they voiU crouch to Iran's foes, 

Why, let them — till the land's despair 
Cries out to Heav'n, and bondage grows 

Too vile for e'en the vile to bear ! 
Till shame at last, long hidden, burns 
Their inmost core, and conscience turns 
Each coward tear the slave lets fall 
Back on his heart in drops of gall ! 
But here, at least, are arms unchain'd, 
And souls that thraldom never stain'd ;— 

This spot, at least, no foot of slave 
Or satrap ever yet profan'd ; 

And, though but few — though fast the wave 
Of life is ebbing from our veins, 
Enough for vengeance still remains. 
As panthers, after set of sun, 
Rush from the roots of Lebanon 
Across the dark sea-robber's way, 2 
We'll bound upon our startled prey ; — 
And when some hearts that proudest swell 
Have felt our falchion s last farewell ; 
When Hope's expiring throb is o'er, 
And e'en Despair can prompt no more, 
This spot shall be the sacred grave 
Of the last few who, vainly brave, 
Die for the land they cannot save !" 
His Chiefs stood round — each shining blade 
Upon the broken altar laid — 
And though so wild and desolate 
Those courts, where once the Mighty sate ; 
Nor longer on those mouldering towers 
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers, 
With which of old the Magi fed 
The wandering spirits of their dead ;' 
Though neither priests nor rites were there, 

Nor cnarmed leaf of pure pomegranate, 4 

1 Ancient heroes of Persia. " Among the Ghebers there 
are some who boast their descent from Rustam."— Stephen's 
Persia. 

2 See Russel's account of the panthers attacking travellers 
1) the night on the sea-shore about the roots of Lebanon. 

3 Among other ceremonies, the Magi used to place upon 
the tops of high towers various kinds of rich viands, upon 
which it was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their de- 
parted heroes regalea themselves." — Richardson. 

4 In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their Fire, as 



Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air, 

Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet ;' 
Yet the same God that heard their sires 
Heard them ; while on that altar's fires 
They swore the latest, holiest deed 
Of the few hearts, still left to bleed, 
Should be, in Iran's injur'd name, 
To die upon that Mount of Flame— 
The last of all her patriot line, 
Before her last untrampled Shrine ! 

Brave, suffering souls ! they little knew 
How many a tear their injuries drew 
From one meek maid, one gentle foe, 
Whom Love first touch'd with others' woe-*» 
Whose life, as free from thought as sin, 
Slept like a lake, till Love threw in 
His talisman, and woke the tide, 
And spread its trembling circles wide. 
Once, Emir ! thy unheeding child, 
Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smil'd,— 
Tranquil as on some battle-plain 

The Persian lily shines and towers, 
Before the combat's reddening stain 

Hath fall'n upon her golden flowers. 
Light-hearted maid, unaw'd, unmov'd, 
While heav'n but spar'd the sire she lov'd, 
Once at thy evening tales of blood 
Unlistening and aloof she stood — 
And oft, when thou hast pac'd along 

Thy Haram halls with furious heat, 
Hast thou not curs'd her cheerful song, 

That came across thee, calm and sweet, 
Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near 
Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear 
Far other feelings Love hath brought — 

Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness 
She now has but the one dear thought, 

And thinks that o'er, almost to madness ' 
Oft doth her sinking heart recall 
His words — " for my sake weep for all ;" 
And bitterly, as day on day 

Of rebel carnage fast succeeds, 
She weeps a lover snatch'd away 

In every Gheber wretch that bleeds. 
There's not a sabre meets her eye, 

But with his life-blood seems to swim 
There 's not an arrow wings the sky, 

But fancy turns its point to him. 
No more she brings with footstep light 
Al Hassan's falchion for the fight ; 
And — had he look'd with clearer sight — 
Had not the mists, that ever rise 
From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyes — 
He would have mark'd her shuddering frame, 
When from the field of blood he came; 



described by Lord, "the Daroo," he says, " giveth them 
water to drink, and a pomegranate leaf to chew in th« 
mouth, to cleanse them from inward uncleanness." 

1 "Early in the morning, they (the Parsces or Ghebers at 
Oulam) go in crowds to pay their devotions to the Sun, to 
whom upon all the altars there are spheres consecrated, 
made by muigic, resembling the circles of the sun; and when 
the sun rises, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to turn 
round with a great noise. They have every one a censer in 
their hands, and offer incense to the sun."— Rabbi Benja 
min. 



64 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The faltering speech— the look estrang'd— 
Voice, step, and life, and beauty chang'd — 
He would have mark'd all this, and known 
Such change is wrought by Love alone ! 

Ah! not the love, that should have bless'd 
So young, so innocent a breast; 
Not the pure, open, prosperous love, 
•That, pledg'd on earth and seal'd above, 
Grows in the world's approving eyes, 

In friendship's smile and home's caress, 
Collecting all the heart's sweet ties 

Into one knot of happiness ! 
No, Hinda, no — thy fatal flame 
Is nurs'd in silence, sorrow, shame. — 

A passion, without hope or pleasure, 
In thy soul's darkness buried deep, 

It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure, — 
Some idol, without shrine or name, 
O'er which its pale-ey'd votaries keep 
Unholy watch, while others sleep ! 

Seven nights have darken'd Oman's Sea, 

Since last, beneath the moonlight ray, 
She saw his light oar rapidly 

Hurry her Gheber's bark away,— 
And still she goes, at midnight hour, 
To weep alone in that high bower, 
And watch, and look along the deep 
For him whose smiles first made her weep. 
But watching, weeping, all was vain, 
She never saw his bark again. 
The owlet's solitary cry, 
The night-hawk, flitting darkly by, 

And oft the hateful carrion bird, 
Heavily flapping his clogged wing, 
Which reek'd with that day's banqueting, 

Was all she saw, was all she heard. 

Tis the eighth morn — Al Hassan's brow 

Is brighten'd with unusual joy — 
What mighty mischief glads him now, 

Who never smiles but to destroy ? 
The sparkle upon Herkend's Sea, 
When tost at midnight furiously, 1 
Tells not a wreck and ruin nigh, 
More surely than that smiling eye ! 
*' Up, daughter up — the Kerna's 2 breath 
Has blown a blast would waken death, 
And yet thou sleep'st — up, child, and see 
This blessed day for Heaven and me, 
A day more rich in Pagan blood 
Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood. 
Before another dawn shall shine, 
His head, heart, limbs — will all be mine , 
This very night his blood shall steep 
These hands all over ere I sleep !" 
" Hif blood !" she faintly scream'd — her mind 
Still singling one from all mankind — 



1 " It is observed with respect to the Sea of Herkend, 
that when it is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like 
fire.'' -Travels of two Mohammedans. 

2 A kind of trumpet ; — " it was that used by Tamerlane, 
tire sound of which i.« described as uncommonly dreadful, 
ind so loud as to be heard at the distance of several miles." 

Richardson 



" Yes — spite of his ravines and towers. 
Hafed, my child, this night is ours. 
Thanks to all-conquering treachery, 

Without whose aid the links accurst, 
That bind these impious slaves, would bo 

To strong for Alla's self to burst ! 
That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread 
My path with piles of Moslem dead, 
Whose baffling spells had almost driven 
Back from their course the Swords of Heaven, 
This night, with all his band, shall know 
How deep an Arab's steel can go, 
When God and Vengeance speed the blow, 
And — Prophet ! — by that holy wreath 
Thou wor'st on Ohod's field of death, 1 
I swear, for every sob that parts 
In anguish from these heathen hearts, 
A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines 
Shall glitter on thy Shrine of Shrines. 
But ha ! — she sinks — that look so wild— 
Those livid lips — my child, my child, 
This life of blood befits not thee, 
And thou must back to Araby. 

Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex 
In scenes that man himself might dread, 
Had I not hop'd our every tread 

Would be on prostrate Persian necks — 
Curst race, they offer swords instead ! 
But cheer thee, maid — the wind that no 
Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow, 
To-day shall waft thee from the shore ; 
And, ere a drop of this night's gore 
Have time to chill in yonder towers, 
Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers !'' 

His bloody boast was all too true — 
There lurk'd one wretch among the few 
Whom Hafed's eagle eye could count 
Around him on that Fiery Mount. 
One miscreant, who for gold betray'd 
The path-way through the valley's shade 
To those high towers where Freedom stood 
In her last hold of flame and blood. 
Left on the field last dreadful night, 
When, sallying from their Sacred Height, 
The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight, 
He lay — but died not with the brave ; 
That sun, which should have gilt his grave, 
Saw him a traitor and a slave ; — 
And, while the few, who thence return'd 
To their high rocky fortress, mourn'd 
For him among the matchless dead 
They left behind on glory's bed, 
He liv'd, and, in the face of morn, 
Laugh'd them and Faith and Heaven to scorn 

Oh for a tongue to curse the slave, 
Whose treason, like a deadly blight, 

Comes o'er the councils of the brave, 
And blasts them in their hour of might ! 

May life's unblessed cup, for him, 

Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim — 



1 "Mohammed had two helmets, an interior and ft*teri«*> 
one ; the latter of which, called Al Mawashah, the fiilei, w 
wreathed garland, he wore at the battle of Ohod." — Uni 
versal History 



LAU A ROOKH. 



tVith hopes, that but allure to fly, 

With joys that vanish while he sips, 
Like Dead-Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, 

But turn to ashes on the lips ! 
His country's curse, his children's shame, 
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame, 
May he, at last, with lips of flame 
On the parch'd desert thirsting die, — 
While lakes that shone in mockery nigh 
Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted 
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted ! 
And, when from earth his spirit flies, 

Just Prophet, lot the damn'd-one dwell 
Full in the sight of Paradise, 

Beholding Heaven and feeling Hell ! 



Lalla Rookh had had a dream the night before, 
which, in spite of the impending fate of poor Hafed, 
made her heart more than usually cheerful during 
the morning, and gave her cheeks all the freshened 
animation of a flower that the Bidmusk has just 
passed over. She fancied that she was sailing on 
that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies who live 
for ever on the water, enjoy a perpetual summer in 
wandering from isle to isle, when she saw a small 
gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of 
those boats which the Maldivian islanders annually 
send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded 
with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an 
offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the 
Sea. At first, this little bark appeared to be empty, 
but on coming nearer 

She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream 
to her Ladies, when Feram or z appeared it the door 
of the pavilion. In his presence, of course, every 
thing else was forgotten, and the "continuance of the 
story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of 
aloes was set to burn in the cassolets ; — the violet 
sherbets were hastily handed round, and, after a short 
prelude on his lute, in the pathetic measure of Nava, 
which is always used to express the lamentations of 
absent lovers, the Poet thus continued : — 

The day is lowering — stilly black 
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack, 
Dispers'd and wild, 'twixt earth and sky 
Hangs like a shattered canopy ! 
There's not a cloud in that blue plain, 

But tells of storm to come or past ; — 
Here, flying loosely as the mane 

Of a young war-horse in the blast ; — 
There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling, 
As proud to be the thunder's dwelling ! 
While some, already burst and riven, 
Seem melting down the verge of heaven ; 
As though the infant storm had rent 

The mighty womb that gave him birth, 
And, having swept the firmament, 

Was now in fierce career for earth. 
On earth, 'twas yet all calm around, 
A pulseless silence, dread, profound, 
More awful than the tempest's sound. 
The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers, 
And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours ; 



The sea-birds, with portentous screech, 
Flew fast to land : — upon the beach 
The pilot oft had paus'd, with glance 
Turn'd upward to that wild expanse ; 
And all was boding, drear and dark 
As her own soul, when Hinda's bark 
Went slowly from the Persian shore. — 
No music tim'd her parting oar, 1 
Nor friends, upon the lessening strand 
Linger'd, to wave the unseen hand, 
Or speak the farewell, heard no more. 
But lone, unheeded, from the bay 
The vessel takes its mournful way, 
Like some ill-destin'd bark that steers 
In silence through the Gate of Tears. 2 

And where was stern Al Hassan then? 
Could not that saintly scourge of men 
From bloodshed and devotion spare ■ 
One minute for a farewell there ? 
No — close within, in changeful fits 
Of cursing and of prayer, he sits 
In savage loneliness to brood 
Upon the coming night of blood, 

With that keen, second-scent of death, 
By which the vulture snuffs his food 

In the still warm and living breath ! 3 
While o'er the wave his weeping daughter 
Is wafted from the scenes of slaughter, 
As a young bird of Babylon, 4 
Let loose to tell of victory won, 
Flies home, with wing, ah ! not unstain'd 
By the red hands that held her chain' d. 

And does the long-left home she seeks 

Light up no gladness on her cheeks ? 

The flowers she nurs'd — the well-known groves, 

Where oft in dreams her spirit roves — 

Once more to see her dear gazelles 

Come bounding with their silver bells ; 

Her birds' new plumage to behold, 

And the gay, gleaming fishes count, 
She left, all filletted with gold, 

Shooting around their jasper fount. 5 — 
Her little garden mosque to see, 

And once again, at evening hour, 
To tell her ruby rosary 

In her own sweet acacia bower. 
Can these delights, that wait her now, 
Call up no sunshine on her brow ? 
No — silent, from her train apart,— 
As if e'en now she felt at heart 



1 " The Easterns used to set out on their Jonger voyage* 
with music." — Harmer. 

2 " The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Rea 
Sea, commonly called Babelmandel. It received this name 
from the old Arabians, on account of the danger of the navi- 
gation, and the number of shipwrecks by which it was dis- 
tinguished ; which induced them to consider as dead, and 
to wear mourning for, all who had the boldness to hazard 
the passage through it into the Ethiopic ocean."— Richard- 
son. 

3 "I have been told that whensoever an animal fall9 
down dead, one or more vultures, unseen before, instantly 
appear." — Pennant. 

4 " They fasten some writing to the wings of a Bagdai 
or Babylonian pigeon." — Travels of certain Englishmen 

5 " The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert herself 
with feeding tame fish in her canals, some of which were 
many years afterwards known by fillets of gold, which ah« 
caused to be put round them." — Harris. 



m 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The chill of her approaching doom, — 

She sits, all lovely in her gloom, 

As a pale Angel of the Grave ; 

And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave, 

Looks, with a shudder, to those towers, 

Where, in a few short awful hours, 

Blood, blood, in steaming tides shall run, 

Foul incense for to-morrow's sun ! 

" Where art thou, glorious stranger ! thou, 

So lov'd, so lost, where art thou now ? 

Foe — Gheber — infidel — whate'er 

fh' unhallow'd name thou'rt doom'd to bear, 

Still, glorious — stil 1 to this fond heart 

Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art ! 

Yes — Alla, dreadful Alla ! yes — 

If there be wrong, be crime in this, 

Let the black waves that round us roll, 

Whelm me this instant, ere my soul, 

Forgetting faith, home, father, all — 

Before its earthly idol fall, 

Nor worship e'en Thyself above him — 

For oh ! so wildly do I love him, 

Thy Paradise itself were dim 

And joyless, if not shar'd with him !" 

Her hands were clasp'd — her eyes uptum'd, 

Dropping their tears like moonlight rain ; 
And, though her lip, fdnd raver ! burn'd 

With words of passion, bold, profane, 
Yet was there light around her brow, 

A holiness in those dark eyes, 
Which show'd — though wandering earthward now, ■ 

Her spirit's home was in the skies. 
Yes — for a spirit, pure as hers, 
Is always pure, e'en while it errs ; 
As sunshine, broken in the rill, 
Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still ! 

So wholly had her mind forgot 

All thoughts but one, she heeded not 

The rising storm — the wave that cast 

A moment's midnight, as it pass'd ; 

Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread 

Of gathering tumult o'er her head — 

Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd to vie 

With the rude riot of the sky. 

But hark ! — that war-whoop on the deck — 

That crash, as if each engine there, 
Mast, sails, and all, were gone to wreck, 

'Mid yells and stampings of despair ! 
Merciful heav'n ! what can it be ? 
'Tis not the storm, though fearfully 
The ship has shuddered as she rode 
O'er mountain waves — " Forgive me, God ! 
Forgive me" — shriek'd the maid and knelt, 
Trembling all over — for she felt, 
As if her judgment hour was near ; 
While crouching round, half dead with fear, 
Her handmaids clung, nor breath'd, nor stirr'd — 
When, hark ! — a second crash — a third — 
And now, as if a bolt ot thunder 
Had riv'n the labouring planks asunder, 
The deck falls in — what horrors then ! 
Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men 
Come mix'd together through the chasm ;— 
Some wretches in their dying spasm 



Still fighting on — and some that call 
" For God and Iran !" as they fall ! 

Whose was the hand that turn'd away 

The perils of th' infuriate fray, 

And snatch'd her, breathless, from beneath 

This wilderment of wreck and death ? 

She knew not — for a faintness came 

Chill o'er her, and her sinking frame, 

Amid the ruins of that hour, 

Lay, like a pale and scorched flower, 

Beneath the red volcano's shower ! 

But oh ! the sights and sounds of dread 

That shock'd her, ere her senses fled ! 

The yawning deck — the crowd that strove 

Upon the tottering planks above — 

The sail, whose fragments, shivering o'er 

The smugglers' heads, all dash'd with gore, 

Flutter'd like bloody flags — the clash 

Of sabres, and the lightning's flash 

Upon their blades, high toss'd about 

Like meteor brands 1 — as if throughout 

The elements one fury ran, 
One general rage, that left a doubt 

Which was the fiercer, Heavn or Man *. 

Once too — but no — it could not be — 

'Twas fancy all — yet once she thought, 
While yet her fading eyes could see, 

High on the ruin'd deck she caught 
A glimpse of that unearthly form, 

That glory of her soul — e'en then, 
Amid the whirl of wreck and storm, 

Shining above his fellow men, 
As, on some black and troublous night, 
The Star of Egypt, 2 whose proud light 
Never hath beam'd on those who rest 
In the White Islands of the West, 3 
Burns through the storm with looks of flame 
That put heaven's cloudier eyes to shame ! 
But no — 'twas but the minute's dream — 
A fantasy— and ere the scream 
Had half-way pass'd her pallid lips, 
A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse 
Of soul and sense its darkness spread 
Around her, and she sunk, as dead ! 

How calm, how beautiful comes on 
The stilly hour, when storms are gone ; 
When warring winds have died away, 
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, 
Melt off, and leave the land and sea 
Sleeping in bright tranquillity, — 
Fresh as if Day again were born, 
Again upon the lap of Morn ! 
When the light blossoms, rudely torn 
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will, 
Hang floating in the pure air still, 
Filling it all with precious balm, 
In gratitude for this sweet calm ; 
And every drop the thunder-showers 
Have left upon the grass and flowers 



1 The meteors that Pliny calls " faces." 

2 " The brilliantCanopus, unseen ia European climate*. ' 
—Brown. 

3 See Wilford's learned Essays on the Sacred Lsles in 
the West. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



67 



Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem 1 
Whose liquid flame is born of them ! 

When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, 
There blow a thousand gentle airs, 
And each a different perfume bears, — 

As if the loveliest plants and trees 
Had vassal breezes of their own 
To watch and wait on them alone, 
And waft no other breath than theirs ! 
When the blue waters rise and fall, 
In sleepy sunshine mantling all ; 
And e'en that swell the tempest leaves 
Is like the full and silent heaves 
Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest, 
Too newly to be quite at rest ! 

Such was the golden hour that broke 
Upon the world when Hinda woke 
From her long trance, and heard around 
No motion but the water's sound 
Rippling against the vessel's side, 
As slow it mounted o'er the tide. — 
But where is she ? — her eyes are dark, 
Are wilder'd still — is this the bark, 
The same, that from Harmozia's bay 
Bore her at morn — whose bloody way 
The sea-dog track'd ? — no — strange and new 
Is all that meets her wondering view. 
Upon a galliot's deck she lies, 

Beneath no rich pavilion's shade, 
No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes. 

Nor jasmine on her pillow laid. r 
But the rude litter, roughly spread 
With war-cloaks, is her homely bed, 
And shawl and sash, on javelins hung, 
For awning o'er her head are flung. 
Shuddering she look'd around — there lay 

A group of warriors in the sun 
Resting their limbs, as for that day 

Their ministry of death were done. 
Some gazing on the drowsy sea, 
Lost in unconscious reverie ; 
And some, who seem'd but ill to brook 
That sluggish calm, with many a look 
To the slack sail impatient cast, 
As loose it flagg'd around the mast. 

Blest Alla ! who shall save her now ? 

There's not in all that warrior-band 
One Arab sword, one turban'd brow 

From her own Faithful Moslem land. 
Their garb — the leathern belt 2 that wraps 

Each yellow vest 3 — that rebel hue — 
The Tartar fleece upon their caps 4 — 

Yes — yes — her fears are all too true, 
And Heav'n hath, in this dreadful hour, 
Abandon'd her to Hafed's power ; — 



1 A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancients C'e- 
raunium, because it was supposed to be found in places 
where thunder had fallen. Tertullian says it has a glitter- 
ing appearance, as if there had been fire in it; and the au- 
thor of the Dissertation in Harris's Voyages supposes it to 
be the opal. 

2 D'Herbelot, Art. Agduani. 

3 "The Guebres are known by a dark yellow colour, 
vhich the men affect in their clothes."— Thevenot. 

4 " The Kolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of 
ihe skin of the sheep of Tartary." — Waring 



Hafed, the Gheber ! — at the thought 

Her very heart's blood chills within , 
He, whom her soul was hourly taught 

To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin. 
Some minister, whom Hell had sent 
To spread its blast, where'er he went, 
And fling, as o'er our earth he trod, 
His shadow betwixt man and God ! 
And she is now his captive — thrown 
In his fierce hands, alive, alone ; 
His the infuriate band she sees, 
All infidels — all enemies ! 
What was the daring hope that then 
Cross'd her like lightning, as again, 
With boldness that despair had lent, 

She darted through that armed crowd 
A look so searching, so intent, 

That e'en the sternest warrior bow'd, 
Abash'd, when he her glances caugh., 
As if he guess'd whose form they sought, 
But no — she sees him not — 'tis gone, — 
The vision, that before her shone 
Through all the maze of blood and storm, 
Is fled — 'twas but a phantom form — 
One of those passing, rainbow dreams, 
Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beams 
Paint on the fleeting mists that roll 
In trance or slumber round the soul ! 

But now the bark, with livelier bound, 
Scales the blue wave — the crew's in motion— 

The oars are out, and with light sound 
Break the bright mirror of the ocean, 

Scattering its brilliant fragments round. 

And now she sees — with horror sees 

Their course is tow'rd that mountain hold,— 

Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze, 

Where Mecca's godless enemies 
Lie, likebeleaguer'dscorpions, roll'd 
In their last deadly, venomous fold ! 

Amid th' illumin'd land and flood, 

Sunless that mighty mountain stood ; 

Save where, above its awful head, 

There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red, 

As 'twere the flag of destiny 

Hung out to mark where death would be ! 

Had her bewilder'd mind the power 

Of thought in this terrific hour, 

She well might marvel where or how 

Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow ^ 

Since ne'er had Arab heard or known 

Of path but through the glen alone. 

But every thought was lost in fear, 

When, as their bounding bark drew near 

The craggy base, she felt the waves 

Hurry them tow'rd those dismal caves 

That from the Deep in windings pass 

Beneath that Mount's volcanic mass : 

And loud a voice on deck commands 

To lower the mast and light the brands !— 

Instantly o'er the dashing tide 

Within a cavern's mouth they glide, 

Gloomy as that eternal Porch, 

Through which departed spirits go ;— 
Not e'en the flare of brand and torch 



63 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Its flickering light, could further throw . ^ 

Than the thick flood that boil'd below. 
Silent they floated — as if each 
Sat breathless, and too aw'd for speech 
In that dark chasm, where even sound 
Seem'd dark, — so sullenly around 
The goblin echoes of the cave 
Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave, 
As 'twere some secret of the grave ! 
But soft — they pause — the current turns 

Beneath them from its onward track ;— 
Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns 

The vexed tide, all foaming, back, 
And scarce the oar-'s redoubled force 
Can stem the eddy's whirling course ; 
When, hark ! — some desperate foot has sprung 
Among the rocks — the chain is flung — 
The oars are up — the grapple clings, 
And the toss'd bark in moorings swings. 

Just then a day-beam, through the shade, 

Broke tremulous — but, ere the maid 

Can see from whence the brightness steals, 

Upon her brow she shuddering feels 

A viewless hand, that promptly ties 

A bandage round her burning eyes ; 

While the rude litter where she lies, 

Uplifted by the warrior throng, 

O'er the steep rocks is borne along. 

Blest power of sunshine ! genial day, 

What balm, what life is in thy ray ! 

To feel thee is such real bliss, 

That had the world no joy but this, 

To sit in sunshine calm and sweet, — 

It were a world too exquisite 

For man to leave it for the gloom, 

The deep, cold shadow of the tomb ! 

E'en Hinda, though she saw not where 

Or whither wound the perilous road, 
Yet knew by that awakening air, 

Which suddenly around her glow'd, 
That they had ris'n from darkness then, 
And breath'd the sunny world again ! 

But soon this balmy freshness fled : 

For now the steepy labyrinth led 

Through damp and gloom — 'mid crash of boughs, 

And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse 

The leopard from his hungry sleep, 

Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey, , 
And long is heard from steep to steep, 

Chasing them down their thundering way. 
The jackal's cry — the distant moan 
Of the hyaena, fierce and lone ; — 
And that eternal, saddening sound 

Of torrents in the glen beneath, 
As 'twere the ever-dark Profound 

That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death ! 
All, all is fearful — e'en to see, 

To gaze on those terrific things 
She now but blindly nears, would be 

Relief to her imaginings ! 
Since never yet was shape so dread, 

But fancy, thus in darkness thrown, 
And by such sounds of horror fed, 

Could frame more dreadful of her own, 



But does she dream ? has Fear again — ■ _ 

Perplex'd the workings of her brain, 

Or did a voice, all music, then 

Come from the gloom, low whispering near— 

"Tremble not, love, thy Gheber 's here !" 

She does not dream — all sense — all ear, 

She drinks the words, " Thy Gheber 's here." 

'Twas his own voice — she could not err — 

Throughout the breathing world's extent 
There was but one such voice for her, 

So kind, so soft, so eloquent ! 
Oh ! sooner shall the rose of May 

Mistake her own sweet nightingale, 
And to some meaner minstrel's lay 

Open her bosom's glowing veil, 1 
Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, 
A breath of the beloved one ! 
Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to think 

She has that one beloved near, 
Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink, 

Hath power to make e'en ruin dear, — 
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, crost 
By fears for him, is chill' d and lost. 
How shall the ruthless Hafed brook 
That one of Gheber blood should look, 
With aught but curses in his eye, 
On her — a maid of Araby- 
A Moslem maid — the child of him, 

Whose bloody banner's dire success 
Hath left their altars cold and dim, 

And their fair land a wilderness ! 
And, worse than all, that night of blood 

Wnich comes so fast — oh ! who shall stay 
The sword, that once hath tasted food 

Of Persian hearts, or turn its way ? 
What arm shall then the victim cover, 
Or from her father shield her lover ? 
" Save him, my God !" she inly cries— 
"Save him this night — and if thine eyes 

Have ever welcom'd with delight 
The sinner's tears, the sacrifice 

Of sinners' hearts — guard him this night, 
And here, before thy throne, I swear 
From my heart's inmost core to tear 

Love, hope, remembrance, though they be 
Link'd with each quivering life-string there, 

And give it bleeding all to Thee ! 
Let him but live, the burning tear, 
The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear, 
Which have been all too much his own, 
Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone. 
Youth pass'd in penitence, and age 
In long and painful pilgrimage, 
Shall leave no traces of the flame 
That wastes me now — nor shall his name 
E'er bless my lips, but when I pray 
For his dear spirit that away 
Casting from its angelic ray 
Th' eclipse of earth, he too may shine 
Redeem' d, all glorious and all Thine I 
Think — think what victory to win 
One radiant soul like his from sin ;— 



1 A frequent image among the oriental poets. " The 
nightingales warbled their enchanting notes, and rent thf 
thin veils of the rose-bud and the rose."— Jami 



LALLA ROOKH 



69 



Pne wandering star of virtue back 
To its own native, heaven-ward track ! 
Let hiro but live, and both are Thine, 

Together Thine — for, blest or crost, 
Living or dead, his doom is mine ; 

And if he perish, both are lost !" 



The next evening Lalla Rookh was entreated 
by her ladies to continue the relation of her won- 
derful dream ; but the fearful interest that hung round 
the late of Hinda and he lover had completely re- 
moved every trace of it from her mind ; — much to 
the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, 
who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting 
visions, and who had already remarked, as an un- 
lucky omen, that the Princess, on the very morning 
after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blos- 
soms of the sorrowful tree, Nilica. 

Fadladeen, whose wrath had more than once 
broken out during the recital of some parts of this 
most heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made 
up his mind to the infliction ; and took his seat for 
the evening with all the patience of a martyr, while the 
Poet continued his profane and seditious story thus : — 

To tearless eyes and hearts at ease 

The leafy shores and sun-bright seas, 

That lay beneath that mountain's height, 

Had been a fair, enchanting sight. 

'Twas one of those ambrosial eves 

A day of storm so often leaves 

At its calm setting — when the West 

Opens her golden bowers of rest, 

And a moist radiance from the skies 

Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes 

Of some meek penitent, whose last, 

Bright hours atone for dark ones past, 

And whose sweet tears o'er wrong forgiven, 

Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven ! 

'Twas stillness all — the winds that late 

Had rush'd through Kerman's almond groves, 
And shaken from her bowers of date 

That cooling feast the traveller loves, 1 
Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl 

The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam 
Limpid, as if her mines of pearl 

Were melted all to form the stream. 
And her fair islets, small and bright, 

With their green shores reflected there, 
Look like those Peri isles of light, 

That hang by spell-work in the air. 
But vainly did those glories burst 
On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first 
The bandage from her brow was taken, 
And pale and aw'd as those who waken 
In theii dark tombs — when, scowling near, 
The Searchers of the Grave 2 appear, — 
She shuddering turn'd to read her fate 

In the fierce eyes that flash'd around ; 



1 " In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from 
the trees by the wind they do not touch, but leave them for 
those who have not any, or for travellers." — Ebn Haukel. 

2 The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir; who are 
called "the Searchers of the Grave" in the "Creed of the 
fttthodox Mahometans" given by Ockley, vol. ii. 



And saw those towers, all desolate, 

That o'er her head terrific frown'd, 
As if defying e'en the smile- 
Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. 
In vain, with mingled hope and fear, 
She looks for him whose voice so dear 
Had come, like music, to her ear — 
Strange, mocking dream ! again 'tis fled. 
And oh ! the shoots, the pangs of dread 
That through her inmost bosom run, 

When voices from without proclaim 
" Hafed, the Chief!" — and, one by one, 

The warriors shout that fearful name ' 
He comes — the rock resounds his tread — 
How shall she dare to lift her head, 
Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glai« 
Not Yemen's boldest sons can bear? 
In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, 
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells, 
As in those hellish fires that light 
The mandrake's charnel leaves at night !' 
How shall she bear that voice's tone, 
At whose loud battle-cry alone 
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, 
Scattered, like some vast caravan, 
When, stretch'd at evening, round the well, 
They hear the thirpting tiger's yell ? 
Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down, 
Shrinking beneath the fiery frown, 
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow 
Is flashing o'er her fiercely now ; 
And shuddering, as she hears the tread 

Of his retiring warrior band. — 
Never was pause so full of dread ; 

Till Hafed with a trembling hand 
Took hers, and, leaning o'er her, sanl, 
" Hinda !" — that word was all he spoke, 
And 'twas enough — the shriek that broke 

From her full bosom told the rest. — 
Panting with terror, joy, surprise, 
The maid but lifts her wondering eyes 

To hide them on her Gheber's breast ! 
'Tis he, 'tis he — the man of blood, 
The fellest of the fire-fiends brood, 
Hafed, the demon of the fight, 
Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight- 
Is her own loved Gheber, mild 
And glorious as when first he smil'd 
In her lone tower, and left such beams 
Of his pure eye to light her dreams, 
That she believ'd her bower had given 
Rest to some wanderer from heaven ! 
Moments there are, and this was one, 
Snatch'd like a minute's gleam of sun 
Amid the black Simoom's eclipse — 

Or like those /erdant spots that bloom . 
Around the crater's burning lips, 

Sweetening the very edge of doom ' 
The past— the future— all that Fate 
Can bring of dark or desperate 
Around such hours, but makes them cast 
Intenser radiance while they last ! 



1 " The Arabians call the mandrake ' the Devil's candia, 
on account of its shining appearance in the night." — Rick 
ardson. 



70 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



E'en he, this youth — though dimm'd and gone 

Each star of Hope that cheer'd him on — 

His glories lost — his cause betray'd — 

Irax\, his dear-loved country, made 

A land of carcases and slaves, 

One dreary waste of chains and graves ! 

Himself but lingering, dead at heart, 

To see the last, long-struggling breath 
Of Liberty's great soul depart, 

Then lay him down, and share her death— 
E'en he, so sunk in wretchedness, 

With doom still darker gathering o'er him, 
Yet, in this moment's pure caress, 

In the mild eyes that shone before him, 
Beaming that blest assurance, worth 
All other transports known on earth, 
That lie was lov'd — well, warmly lov'd— 
Oh ! in this precious hour he prov'd 
How deep, how thorough-felt the glow 
Of rapture, kindling out of woe ; — 
How exquisite one single drop 
Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top 
Of misery's cup — how keenly quaff'd, 
Though death must follow on the draught ! 

She too, while gazing on those eyes 

That sink into her soul so deep, 
Forgets all fears, all miseries, 

Or feels them like the wretch in sleep, 
Whom Fancy cheats into a smile, 
Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while ! 

The mighty ruins where they stood, 

Upon the mount's high, rocky verge, 
Lay open tow'rds the ocean flood, 

Wnere lightly o'er th' illumin'd surge 
Many a fair bark, that, all the day, 
Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay, 
Now bounded on and gave their sails, 
Yet dripping, to the evening gales ; 
Like eagles, when the storm is done, 
Spreading their wet wings in the sun. 
The beauteous clouds, though daylight's Star 
Had sunk behind the hills of Lar, 
Were still with lingering glories bright, — 
As if to grace the gorgeous West, 

The Spirit of departing Light 
That eve had left its sunny vest 

Behind him, ere he wing'd his flight. 
Never was scene so form'd for love ! 
Beneath them waves of crystal move 
In silent swell — Heav'n glows above, 
And their pure hearts, to transport given. 
Swell like the wave, and glow like heav'n. 

But ah ! too soon that dream is past — 

Again, again her fear returns ; — 
Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast, 

More faintly the horizon burns, 
And every rosy tint that lay 
On the smooth sea hath died away. 
Hastily to the darkening skies 
A glance she casts — then wildly cries 
** At night, he said — and, look, 'tis near- 
Fly, fly — if yet thou lov'st me, fly — 
Soon will his murderous band be here, 
And I shall see thee bleed and die. — 



Hush ! — heard'st thou not the tramp of men 
Sounding from yonder fearful glen ? — 
Perhaps e'en now they climb the wood — 

Fly, fly — though still the West is bright, 
He'll come — oh ! yes — he wants thy blood— 

I know him — he'll not wait for night 1" 
In terrors e'en to agony 

She clings around the wondering Chief;— 
" Alas, poor wilder'd maid ! to me 

Thou ow'st this raving trance of grief. 
Lost as I am, nought ever grew 
Beneath my shade but perish' d too — 
My doom is like the Dead Sea air, 
And nothing lives that enters there ! 
Why were our barks together driven 
Beneath this morning's furious heaven ? 
Why, when I saw the prize that chance 

Had thrown into my desperate arms, — 
When, casting but a single glance 

Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, 
I vow'd (though watching viewless o'er 

Thy safety through that hour's alarms'* 
To meet th' unmanning sight no more — 
Why have I broke that heart- wrung vow ? 
Why weakly, madly met thee now ? — 
Start not — that noise is but the shock 

Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd— 
Dread nothing here — upon this rock 

We stand above the jarring world, 
Alike beyond its hope — its dread — 
In gloomy safety, like the Dead ! 
Or, could e'en earth and hell unite 
In league to storm this sacred height, 
Fear nothing thou — myself, to-night, 
And each o'erlooking star that dwells 
Near God, will be thy sentinels ; 
And, ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow, 

Back to thy sire " 

" To-morrow ! —no—" 
The maiden scream'd — " thou'lt never see 
To-morrow's sun — death, death will be 
The night-cry through each reeking tower, 
Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour ! 
Thou art betray'd — some wretch who knew 
That dreadful glen's mysterious clew — 
Nay, doubt not — by yon stars 'tis true — 
Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire ; 
This morning, with that smile so dire 
He wears in joy, he told me all, 
And stamp'd in triumph through our hall 
As though thy heart already beat 
Its last life-throb beneath his feet ! 
Good heav'n, how little dream'd I then 

His victim was my own lov'd youth ! — 
Fly — send — let some one watch the glen— 

By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth !" 

Oh ! colder than the wind that freezes 
Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd, 

Is that congealing pang which seizes 
The trusting bosom, when betray'd. 

He felt it — deeply felt — and stood, 

As if the tale had froz'n his blood, 
So amaz'd and motionless was he; — 

Like one whom sudden spells enchant, 

Or some mute, marble habitant 



LALLA ROOKH. 



7] 



Of the still halls of Ishmonie !' 
But soon the painful chill was o'er, 

-fld his great soul, herself once more 
ijook'd from b's b>-ow in all the rays 
Of her best, happiest, grandest days ! 
Never, in moment most elate, 

Did that high spirit loftier rise ; — 
While bright, serene, determinate, 

His looks are lifted to the skies, 
As if the signal lights of Fate 

Were shining in those awful eyes ! 
Tis come — his hour of martyrdom 
In Iran's sacred cause is come ; 
And though his life hath pass'd away 
Like lightning on a stormy day, 
Yet shall his death-hour leave a track 

Of glory, permanent and bright, 
To which the brave of aftertimes, 
The suffering brave shall long look back 

With proud regret, — and by its light 

Watch through the hours of slavery's night 
For vengeance on th' oppressor's crimes ! 
This rock, his monument aloft, 

Shall speak the tale to many an age ; 
And hither bards and heroes oft 

Shall come in secret pilgrimage, 
And bring their warrior sons, and tell 
The wondering boys where Hafed fell, 
And swear them on those lone remains 
Of their lost country's ancient fanes, 
Never — while breath of life shall live 
Within them — never to forgive 
Th' accursed race, whose ruthless chain 
Hath left on Iran's neck a stain, 
Blood, blood alone can cleanse again ! 

Such are the swelling thoughts that now 
Enthrone themselves on Hafed's brow : 
And ne'er did Saint of Issa 2 gaze 

On the red wreath, for martyrs twin'd, 
More proudly than the youth surveys 

That pile, which through the gloom behind, 
Half lighted by the altar's fire, 
Glimmers, — his destin'd funeral pyre ! 
Heap'd by his own, his comrade's hands, 

Of every wood of odorous breath, 
Ther«\ by the Fire-god's shrine it stands, 

Ready to fold in radiant death 
The few still left of those who swore 
To perish there, when hope was o'er — 
The few, to whom that couch of flame, 
Which rescues them from bonds and shame, 
Is sweet and welcome as the bed 
For their own infant Prophet spread, 
When pitying Heav'n to roses turn'd 
The death-flames that beneath him burn'd ! 3 

With watchfulness the maid attends 
His rapid glance, where'er it bends — 



1 For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper 
Egypt, where it is s;tid there are many statues of men, 
women, etc. to be seen to this day, see Perry's View of the 
Levant. 

2 Jesus. 

3 "The Ghebers say, that when Abraham, their great 
Prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, tho 
flame turned instantly into a hed of roses, where the child 

weetb tp*d." — Tavernier. 



Why shoots his eyes such awful beams ? 
What plans he now ? what thinks or dreams ? 
Alas ! why stands he musing here, 
s, When every moment teams with fear ? 
x Hafed, my own beloved lord," 
She kneeling cries — " first, last ador'd ! 
If in that soul thou'st ever felt 

Half what thy lips impassion'd swore, 
Here, on my knees, that never knelt 

To any but their God before, 
I pray thee, as thou lov'-st me, fly — 
Now, now- — ere yet their blades are nigh. 
Oh haste — the bark that bore me hither 

Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea 
East — west — alas, I care not whither, 
So thou art safe, and I with thee ! 
Go where we will, this hand in thine, 

Those eyes before me smiling thus, 
Through good and ill, through storm and shine, 

The world 's a world of love for us ! 
On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell, 
Where 'tis no crime to love too well ; — 
Where thus to worship tenderly 
An erring child of light like thee 
Will not be sin — or, if it be, 
Where we may weep our faults away, 
Together kneeling, night and day, 
Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine, 
And I — at any God's for thine I'^X 

Wildly those passionate words she spoke- 
Then hung her head, and wept for shame ' 
Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke 
With every deep-heav'd sob that came. 
While he, young, warm — oh ! wonder not 
If, for a moment, pride and fame, 
His oath — his cause — that shrine of flame, 

And Iran's self are all forgot 
For her whom at his feet he sees, 
Kneeling in speechless agonies. 
No, blame him not, if Hope awhile 
Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile 
O'er hours to come — o'er days and nights 
Wing'd with those precious, pure delights 
Which she, who bends all beauteous there, 
Was born to kindle and to share ! 
A tear or two, which, as he bow'd 

To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, 
First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud 

Of softness passing o'er his soul. 
Starting, he brush'd the drops away, 
Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray ; — 
Like one who, on the morn of fight, 
Shakes from his sword the dews of night, 
That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light. 

Yet, though subdued th' unnerving thrill, 
Its warmth, its weakness hnger'd still 

So touching in each look and tone, 
That the fond, fearing, hoping maid 
Half counted on the flight she pray'd, 

Half thought the hero's soul was grown 

As soft, as yielding as her own ; 
And smil'd and bless'd him, while he said, 
" Yes — if there be some happier sphere, 
Where fadeless truth like ours is dear*. 



72 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



If there be any land of rest 

For those who love and ne'er forget, 
Oh ! comfort thee — for safe and blest 

We'll meet in that calm region yet !" 
Scarce had she time to ask her heart 
If good or ill these words impart, 
When the rous'd youth impatient flew 
To the tower-wall, wnere, high in view, 
A ponderous sea-horn 1 hung, and blew 
A signal, deep and dread as those 
The storm-fiend at his rising blows. — 
Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true 
Through life and death, that signal knew ; 
For 'twas th' appointed warning-blast, 
Th' alarm to tell when hope was past, 
And the tremendous death-die cast ! 
And there, upon the mouldering tower, 
Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour, 
Ready to sound o'er land and sea 
That dirge-note of the brave and free 

They came — his Chieftains at the call 
Came slowly round, and with them all- 
Alas, how few ! — the worn remains 
Of those who late o'er Kerman's plains 
Went gaily prancing to the clash 

Of Moorish zel and tymbalon, 
Catching new hope from every flash 

Of their long lances in the sun — 
And, as their coursers charg'd the wind, 
And the wide ox-tails stream'd behind, 2 
Looking, as if the steeds they rode 
Were wing'd, and every Chief a God ! 

How fall'n, how alter'd now ! how wan 
Each scarr'd and faded visage shone, 
As round the burning shrine they came ;— 

How deadly was the glare it cast, 
As mute they paus'd before the flame 

To light their torches as they pass'd ! 
'Twas silence all — the youth had plann'd 
The duties of his soldier-band ; 
And each determin'd brow declares 
His faithful Chieftains well know theirs. 
But minutes speed — night gems the skies— 
And oh how soon, ye blessed eyes, 
That look from heaven, ye may behold 
Sights that will turn your star-fires cold ! 
Breathless with awe, impatience, hope, 
The maiden sees the veteran group 
Her litter silently prepare, 

And lay it at her trembling feet ;— 
And now the youth, with gentle care, 

Hath plac'd her in the shelter'd seat, 
And press'd her hand — that lingering press 

Of hands, that for the last time sever; 
Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness, 

When that hold breaks, is dead for ever. 
And yet to her this sad caress 

Gives hope — so fondly hope can err ! 



l u Tlie shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, 
and the Mediterranean, and still used in many nar.s as a 
trumpet for blowing alarms or giving signals . it sen to forth a 
deep and hollow sound." — Pennant. 

2 " The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large 
flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the ta Is of wild 
Dxen, that are to be found in some places of the idies." — 
Thevcnot. 



Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess — 
Their happy flight's dear harbinger ; 

'Twas warmth — assurance — tenderness — 
'Twas any thing but leaving her. 

" Haste, haste !" she cried "the clouds grow dark. 
But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark ; 
And, by to-morrow's dawn — oh bliss ! 

With thee upon the sun-bright oeep, 
Far off, I'll but remember this, 

As some dark vanish'd dreasa of sleep 1 
And thou " but ah ! — he answers nc»-~ 

Good Heav'n ! — and does she go alone ? 
She now has reach'd that dismal spot, 

Where, some hours since, his voice's tone 
Had come to soothe her fears and ills, 
Sweet as the Angel Israfil's, 1 
When every leaf on Eden's tree 
Is trembling to his minstrelsy — 
Yet now — oh now, he is not nigh— 

" Hafed ! my Hafed ! — if it be 
Thy will, thy doom this night to die, 

Let me but stay to die with thee, 
And I will bless thy loved name, 
'Till the last fife-breath leave this frame. 
Oh ! let our lips, our cheeks be laid 
But near each other while they fade ; 
Let us but mix our parting breaths, 
And 1 can die ten thousand deaths ! 
You too, who hurry me away 
So cruelly, one moment stay— 

Oh ! stay — one moment is not much ; 
He yet may come — for him I pray — 
Hafed ! dear Hafed !" — All the way 

In wild lamentmgs, that would touch 
A heart of stone, she shriek'd his name 
To the dark woods — no Hafed came : — 
No — hapless pair — you've look'd your last ; 

Your hearts should both have broken then : 
The dream is o'er — your doom is cast — 

You'll never meet on earth again ! 

Alas for him, who hears her cries ! — 

Still half-way down the steep he stands, 
Watching with fix'd and feverish eyes 

The glimmer of those burning brands, 
That down the rocks, with mournful ray 
Light all he loves on earth away ! 
Hopeless as they who, far at sea, 

By the cold moon have just consign'd 
The corse of one, lov'd tenderly, 

To the bleak flood they leave behind ; 
And on '.he deck still lingering stay, 
And long look back, with sad delay, 
To watch the moonlight on the wave, 
That ripples o'er that cheerless grave. 
But see — he starts — what heard he then ? 
That dreadful shout ! — across the glen 
From the land side it comes, and loud 
Rings through the chasm ; as if the crowd 
Of fearful things, that haunt that dell, 
Its Gholes and Dives and shapes of hell 
Had all in one dread howl broke out, 
So loud, so terrible that shout ! 



1 " The Angel Israfil, who has the most melodious voice 
of all God's creatures." — Sale 



LALLA ROOKH. 



73 



/ 



They come — the Moslems come !'' — he cries, 
His proud soul mounting to his eyes — 
"Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam 
Enfranchis'd through yon starry dome, 
Rejoice — for souls of kindred fire 
Are on the wing to join your choir !" 
He said — and, light as bridegrooms bound 

To their young loves, reclimb d the steep 
A.nd gain'd the shrine — his Chiefs stood round— 

Their swords, as with instinctive leap, 
Together, at that cry accurst, 
Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst. 
And hark ! — again — again it rings ; 
Near and more near its echoings 
Peal through the chasm — oh ! who that then 
Had seen those listening warrior-men, 
With their swords grasp'd, their eyes of flame 
Turn'd on their Chief— could doubt the shame, 
Th' indignant shame with which they thrill 
To hear those shouts and yet stand still ? 
He read their thoughts — they were his own — 

" What ! while our arms can wield these blades, 
Shall we die tamely ? die alone ? 

Without one victim to our shades, 
One Moslem heart where, buried deep,- 
The sabre from its toil may sleep 1 _ _. 
No — God of Iran's burning skies V s 
Thou scorn'st th' inglorious sacrifice; ,■ 
No — though of all earth's hope berefty 
Life, swords, and vengeance still are lef 
We'll make yon valley's reeking caveat 
Live in the awe-struck minds of mea£ 
Till tyrants shudder, when their slavej 

Tell of the Gheber's bloody glem 
Follow, brave hearts ! — this pile remaina 
Our refuge still from life and chains ^' 
But his the best, the holiest bed^^l- 
Who sinks entomb'd in Moslem deac 
Down the precipitous rocks they sprung 
While vigour, more than human, strung 
Each arm and heart. — Th' exulting foe 
Still through the dark defiles below^— •> 
Track'd by his torches' lurid firef^^ 

Wound slow, as through Golconda s valeJ!^ 
The mighty serpent, in his irey^l^ 

Glides on with glittering, deadly trail/"* 
No torch the Ghebers need — so well 
They know each mystery of the dell, 

So oft have, in their wanderings, 
Cross'd the wild race that round them dwell, 
The very tigers from their delves 

Look out, and let them pass, as things 
Untam'd and fearless as themselves ! 
There was a deep ravine, that lay 
Yet darkling in the Moslem's way ;— 
Fit spot to make invaders rv a 
The many fall'n before the few. 
The torrents from that morning's sky 
Had fill'd the narrow chasm breast-high, 
And, on each side, aloft and wild, 
Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pil'd, 
The guards, with which young Freedom lines 
The pathways to her mountain shrines. 



1 See Hoole upon the Story of Sinbad. 
K 



Here, at this pass, the scanty band 
Of Iran's last avengers stand — 
Here wait, in silence like the dead, 
And listen for the Moslem's tread 
So anxiously, the carrion-bird 
Above them flaps his wings unheard ! 

They come — that plunge into the water 
Gives signal for the work of slaughter. 
Now, Ghebers, now — if ere your blades 

Had point or prowess, prove them now— 
Woe to the file that foremost wades ! 

They come — a falchion greets each brow, 
And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk, 
Beneath the gory waters sunk, 
Still o'er their drowning bodies press 
New victims quick and numberless ; 
Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band, 

So fierce their toil, hath pow r er to stir, 
But listless from each crimson hand 

The sword hangs, clogg'd with massacre. 

Never was horde of tyrants met 
With bloodier welcome — never yet 
To patriot vengeance hath the sword 
More terrible libations pour'd ! 
All up the dreary, long ravine, 
By the red, murky glimmer seen 
Of half-quench'd brands, that o'er the flood 
Lie scatter'd round and burn in blood, 
What ruin glares ! what carnage sw r ims- ! 
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs, 
Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand, 
In that thick pool of slaughter stand ; — 
Wretches who wading, half on fire 

From the toss'd brands that round them fly 
'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire : 

And s6me who, grasp'd by those that die, 
Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er 
In their dead brethren's gushing gore ! 

But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, 
Still hundreds, thousands more succeed , 
Countless as tow'rds some flame at night 
The North's dark insects wing their flight, 
And quench or perish in its fight, 
To this terrific spot they pour — 
Till, bridg'd with Moslem bodies o'er, 
It bears aloft their slippery tread, 
And o'er the dying and the dead, 
Tremendous causeway ! on they pass.— 
Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas, 

What hope was left for you ? for you, 
Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice 
Is smoking in their vengeful eyes — 

Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew 

And burn with shame to find how few. 
Crush'd down by that vast multitude, 
Some found their graves where first they stood , 
While some w 7 ith hardier struggle died, 
And still fought on by Hafed's side, 
Who, fronting to the foe, trod back 
Tow'rds the high towers his gory track ; 
And, as a lion, swept away 

By sudden swell of Jordan's pride 1 



1 " In this thicket, upon the banks of the Jordan, severa- 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



From the wild covert where he lay, 

Long battles with the o'erwhelming tide, 
So fought he back with fierce delay, 
And kept both foes and fate at bay. 

But whither now ? their track is lost, 

Their prey escap'd — guide, torches gone— 
By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost, 

The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on — 
" Curse on those tardy lights that wind," 
They panting cry, " so far behind — 
Oh for a bloodhound's precious scent, 
To track the way the Gheber went !" 
Vain wish — confusedly along 
They rush, more desperate as more wrong : 
Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights, 
Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, 
Their footing, maz'd and lost, they miss, 
And down the darkling precipice 
Are dash'd into the deep abyss : 
Or midway hang, impal'd on rocks, 
A banquet, yet alive, for flocks 
Of ravening vultures — while the dell 
Re-echoes with each horrid yell. 

Those sounds — the last, to vengeance dear, 
That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear, — 
Now reach him, as aloft, alone, 
Upon the steep way breathless thrown, 
He lay beside his reeking blade, 

Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er, 
Its last blood-offering amply paid, 

And Iran's self could claim no more. 
One only thought, one lingering beam 
Now broke across his dizzy dream 
Of pain and weariness — 'twas she 

His heart's pure planet, shining yet 
Above the waste of memory, 

When all life's other lights were set. 
And never to his mind before 
Her image such enchantment wore. 
It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd, 

Each fear that chill'd their loves was past, 
And not one cloud of earth remain'd 

Between him and her glory cast ; — 
As if to charms, before so bright, 

New grace from other worlds was given, 
And his soul saw her by the light 

Now breaking o'er itself from heaven ! 

A voice spoke near him — 'twas the tone 

Of a lov'd friend, the only one 

Of all his warriors left with life 

From that short night's tremendous strife. — 

"And must we then, my Chief, die here ? — 

Foes round us, and the Shrine so near?" 

These words have rous'd the last remains 

Of life within him — "what ! not yet 
Beyond the reach of Moslem chains?" — 

The thought could make e'en Death forget 
His icy bondage — with a bound 
He springs, all bleeding, from the ground, 



sorts of wild beasts are wont to harbour themselves, whose 
being washed out of the covert by the overflowings of the 
river, gave occasion to that allusion of Jeremiah, he shall 
come up like a lion from the swelling of Jordan." — Maun- 
drelVs Aleppo. 



And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown 

E'en feebler, heavier than his own, 

And faintly up the pathway leads, 

De^ath gaining on each step he treads 

Speed them, thou God, who heard'st theii »owr ' 

They mount — they bleed — oh save them now— 

The crags are red they've clamber'd o'er, 

The rock-weeds dripping with their gore— 

Thy blade too, Hafed, false at length, 

Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength — 

Haste, haste — the voices of the foe 

Come near and nearer from below — 

One effort more — thank Heav'n ! 'tis past, 

They've gain'd the topmost steep at last. 

And now they touch the temple's walls, 

Now Hafed sees the Fire divine — 
When, lo ! — his weak, worn comrade falls 

Dead on the threshold of the Shrine. 
" Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled ! 

And must I leave thee withering here, 
The sport of every ruffian's tread, 

The mark for every coward's spear? 
No, by yon altar's sacred beams !" 
He cries, and with a strength that seems 
Not of this world, uplifts the frame 
Of the fall'n Chief, and tow'rds the flame 
Bears him along ; — with death-damp hand 

The corpse upon the pyre he lays, 
Then lights the consecrated brand, 

And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze, 
Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea. — 

" Now, Freedom's God ! I come to Thee," 
The youth exclaims, and with a smile 
Of triumph vaulting on the pile, 
In that last effort, ere the fires 
Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires ! 

What shriek was that on Oman's tide? 

It came from yonder drifting bark, 
That just has caught upon her side 

The death-light — and again is dark. 
It is the boat — ah, why delay'd ? — 
That bears the wretched Moslem maid 
Confided to the watchful care 

Of a small veteran band, with whom 
Their generous Chieftain would not share 

The secret of his final doom ; 
But hop'd when Hinda, safe and free, 

Was render'd to her father's eyes, 
Their pardon, full and prompt, would be 

The ransom of so dear a prize. 
Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate, 
And proud to guard their beauteous freight, 
Scarce had they clear' d the surfy waves 
That foam around those frightful caves, 
When the curst war-whoops, known so well, 
Come echoing from the distant dell — 
Sudden each oar, upheld and still, 

Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side 
And, driving at the current's will, 

They rock'd along the whispering tide, 
While every eye, in mute dismay, 

Was tow'rd that fatal mountain turn'd, 
Where the dim altar's quivering ray 

As vet all lone and tranquil burn'd 



LALLA ROOKR 



76 



Oh ! 'tis not, Hind a, m the power 

Of Fancy's most terrific touch, 
To paint thy pangs in that dread hour — 

Thy silent agony — 'twas such 
As those who feel could paint too well, 
But none e'er felt and Hv'd to tell ! 
'Twas not alone the dreary state 
Of a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate, 
When, though no more remains to dread, 

The panic chill will not depart ; — 
When, though the inmate Hope be dead, 
. Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart. 
No — pleasures, hopes, affections gone, 
The wretch may bear, and yet live on, 
Like things within the cold rock found 
Alive, when all 's congeal'd around. 
But there 's a blank repose in this, 
A. calm stagnation, that were bliss 
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, 
Now felt through all thy breast and brain— 
That spasm of terror, mute, intense, 
That breathless, agoniz'd suspense, 
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching 
The heart hath no relief but breaking ! 

Calm is the wave — heav'n's brilliant lights 

Reflected dance beneath the prow ; — 
Time was when, on such lovely nights, 

She who is there, so desolate now, 
Could sit all cheerful, though alone, 

And ask no happier joy than seeing 
That star-light o'er the waters thrown — 
No joy but that to make her blest, 

And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being 
That bounds in youth's yet careless breast — 
'tself a star, not borrowing light, 
But in its own glad essence bright. 
How different now ! — but, hark, again 
The yell of havoc rings — brave men ! 
in vain, with beating hearts, ye stand 
On the bark's edge — in vain each hand 
Half draws the falchion from its sheath ; 

All's o'er — in rust your blades may lie : 
He, at whose word they've scatter'd death, 

E'en now, this night, himself must die ! 
Well may ye look to yon dim tower, 

And ask, and wondering guess what means 
The batile-cry at this dead hour — 

Ah ! she could tell you — she, who leans 
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, 
With brow against the dew-cold mast — 

Too well she knows — her more than life, 
Her soul's first idol and its last, 

Lies bleeding in that murderous strife. 
But see — what moves upon the height ? 
some signal ! — 'tis a torch's light. 

What bodes its solitary glare ? 
n gasping silence tow'rd the shrine 
<VU eyes are turn'd — thine, Hinda, thine 

lix their last failing life-beam there. 
Twas but a moment — fierce and high 
The death-pile blaz'd into the sky, 
And far away o'er rock and flood 

Its melancholy radiance sent ; 
While Hafed, like a vision, stood 
Ueveal'd before the burning pyre, 



Tall, shadowy, like a Spnit of Fire 
Shrin'd in its own grand element ! 

"'Tis he !" — the shuddering maid exclaims,— 
But, while she speaks, he 's seen no more ; 

High burst in air the funeral flames, 
And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er ! 

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave — 
Then sprung, as if to reach the blaz£, 
Where still she fix'd her dying gaze, 
And, gazing, sunk into the wave, — 
Deep, deep, — where never care or pain 
Shall reach her innocent heart again ! 



Farewell — farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! 

(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea :) 
No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water, 

More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. 

Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, 
How light was thy heart 'till Love's witchery came, 

Like the wind of the south 1 o'er a summer lute blowing 
And hush'd all its music and wilher'd its frame ! 

But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, 
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom 

Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, 
With nought but the sea-star 2 to light up her tomb. 

And still, when the merry date-season is burning, 
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, 1 

The happiest there, from their pastime returning, 
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. 

The young village maid, when with flowers she 
dresses 

Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, 
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, 

She mournfully turns from the mirror away. 

Nor shall Iran, belov'd of her Hero ! forget thee,— 
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, 

Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, 
Erabalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart. 

Farewell — be it ours to embellish thy pillow 
With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep; 

Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow 
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. 

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; 4 

With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber 
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. 

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, 
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; 



1 " This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, 
that they can never be tuned whib it lasts." — Stephen's 
Persia. 

2 " One of the greatest curiosities found in the Persian 
Gulf is a fish which the English call Star-fish. It is circu- 
lar, and at night very luminous, resembling the full moon 
surrounded by rays." — JVIirza Abu Taleb. 

3 For a description of the merriment of the date-time, of 
their work, their dances, and their return home from the 
palm-groves at the end of autumn with the fruits, see 
Kempfer, AriHenitat, Rxot. 

4 Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concre 
tion of the tears of birds. — See Trevoux, Chambers 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian 1 are 
sparkling, 
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. 

Farewell-rfarewell — until Pity's sweet fountain 
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, 

They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that 
mountain, 
They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave. 



The singular placidity with which Fadladeen 
, had listened, during the latter part of this obnoxious 
story, surprised the Princess and FeraMorz exceed- 
ingly ; and even inclined towards him the hearts of 
these unsuspicious young persons, who little knew 
the source of a complacency so marvellous. The 
truth was, he had been organizing, for the last few 
days, a most notable plan of persecution against the 
poet, in consequence of some passages that had fal- 
len from him on the second evening of recital, which 
appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain lan- 
guage and principles, for which nothing short of the 
summary criticism of the Chabuk 2 would be advisa- 
ble. It was his intention, therefore, immediately on 
their arrival at Cashmere, to give information to the 
king of Bucharia of the very dangerous sentiments 
of his minstrel ; and if, unfortunately, that monarch 
did not act with suitable vigour on the occasion, (that 
is, if he did not give the Chabuk to Feramorz, and 
a place to Fadladeen,) there would be an end, he 
feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He 
could not help, however, auguring better both for 
himself and the cause of potentates in general ; and 
it was the pleasure arising from these mingled antici- 
pations that diffused such unusual satisfaction through 
his features, and made his eyes shine out, like poppies 
of the desert, over the wide and lifeless wilderness 
of that countenance. 

Having decided upon the Poet's chastisement in 
this manner, he thought it but humanity to spare him 
the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly, when 
they assembled next evening in the pavilion, and 
Lalla Rookh expected to see all the beauties of her 
bard melt away, one by one, in the acidity of criti- 
cism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian Queen — 
he agreeably disappointed her by merely saying, with 
an ironical smile, that the merits of such a poem de- 
served to be tried at a much higher tribunal ; and then 
suddenly passing off into a panegyric upon all Mus- 
sulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and 
imperial master, Aurungzebe — the wisest and best of 
the descendants of Timur — who, among other great 
things he had done for mankind, had given to him, 
Fadladeen, the very profitable posts of Betel-car- 
rier and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief 
Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms, 3 and Grand 
Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram. 

They were now not far from that forbidden ri- 



1 "The bay of Ki^selarke, which is otherwise called the 
Golden Bay, the sand whereof shines as fire." — Struy. 

2 " The application of whips or rods." — Dubois. 

3 Kempfer mentions such an officer among the attendants 
of the King of Persia, and calls him, "formae corporis esti- 
mator." His business was, at stated periods, to measure 
the ladies of the Haram by a sort of regulation girdle, whose 



ver,' beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass ; and 
were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun 
Abdaul, which had always been a favourite resting- 
place of the emperors in their annual migrations to 
Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, 
Jehanguire, wandered with his beloved and beautiful 
Nourmahal , and here would Lalla Rookh have 
been happy to remain for ever, giving up the throne 
of Bucharia and the world, for Feramorz and love 
in this sweet lonely valley. The time was now fas* 
approaching when she must see him no longer — oi 
see him with eyes whose every look belonged to 
another ; and there was a melancholy preciousness in 
these last moments, which made her heart cling to 
them as it would to life. During the latter part of 
the journey, indeed, she had sunk into a deep sadness, 
from which nothing but the presence of the young 
minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in 
tombs, which only light up when the air is admitted, 
it was only at his approach that her eyes became 
smiling and animated. But here, in this dear valley, 
every moment was an age of pleasure ; she saw him 
all day, and was, therefore, all day happy — resem- 
bling, she often thought, that people of Zmge, who 
attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one 
genial star that rises nightly over their heads. 2 

The whole party, indeed, seemed in their liveliest 
mood during the few days they passed in this delight- 
ful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess, 
who were here allowed a freer range than they could 
safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place, 
ran wild among the gardens, and bounded through 
the meadows, lightly as young roes over the aromatic 
plains of Tibet. While Fadladeen, beside the spi- 
ritual comfort he derived from a pilgrimage to the 
tomb of the Saint from whom the valley is named, 
had opportunities of gratifying, in a small way, his 
taste for victims, by putting to death some hundreds 
of those unfortunate little lizards, which ail pious 
Mussulmans make it a point to kill ; — taking for 
granted, that the manner in which the creature hangs 
its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in 
which the Faithful say their prayers ! 

About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those 
Royal Gardens, which had grown beautiful under the 
care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still, 
though those eyes could see them no longer. This 
place, with its flowers and its holy silence, interrupted 
only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its mar- 
ble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, 
was to Lalla Rookh all that her heart could fancy 
of fragrance, coolness, and almost heavenly tran- 
quillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, " it was 
too delicious ;" — and here, in listening to the sweei 
voice of Feramorz, or reading in his eyes what yet 
he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments 
of her whole life were passed. One evening, when 
they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal — 
the Light of the Haram, 3 who had so often wandered 



limits it was not thought graceful to exceed. If any of 
them outgrew this standard of shape, they were reduced by 
abstinence till they came within its bounds. 

1 The Attock. 

2 The star Soheil, or Canopus. 

3 Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram. She was 
afterwards called Nourjehan, or the Light of the World. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



77 



among these flowers, and fed with her own hands, in 
those marble basins, the small shining fishes of which 
she was so fond, 1 — the youth, in order to delay the 
moment of separation, proposed to recite a short story, 
or rather rhapsody, of which this adored Sultana was 
the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement 
of a sort of lovers' quarrel, v hich took place between 
her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cash- 
mere ; and would remind the Princess of that differ- 
ence between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress 
Marida, which was so happily made up by the soft 
strains of the musician, Moussali. As the story was 
chietij to be told in song, and Feramorz had un- 
luckilj forgotten his own lute in the valley, he bor- 
rowed the vina of Lalla Rookh's little Persian 
slave and thus began : — 

THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 



Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, 

With its roses, the brightest that earth ever gave, 2 
Its temples and grottos, and fountains as clear 
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave ? 

Oh ! to see it at sunset, — when warm o'er the Lake 

Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws, 
Like ? oride full of blushes, when lingering to take 

A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes ! — 
When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming 

half shown, 
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. 
Here the music of pray'r from a minaret swells, 

Here the magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, 
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells 

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is 
ringing. 3 
Or to see by moonlight, — when mellowly shines 
The light o'er its palaces, gardens and shrines ; 
When the water-falls gleam like a quick fall of stars, 
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars 
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet 
From the cool, shining walks where the young peo- 
ple meet : — 
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes 
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks, 
Hills, cupolas, fountains, call'd forth every one 
Out of darkness, as they were just born of the Sun. 
When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day, 
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away ; 
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos,like a lover, 
The young aspen-trees 4 till they tremble all over. 
When the East is as warm as the fight of first hopes, 

And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl' d, 
Shines in through the mountainous 5 portal that opes, 

Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world ! 



1 See note, p. 65. 

2 " The rose of Kashmire, for its brilliancy and delicacy 
of colour has long been proverbial in the East." — Forster. 

3 " Tied round her waist the zone of bells, that sounded 
with ravishing melody." — Song of Jayadeva. 

4 " The little isles in the Lake of Cacheraire are set with 
arbwurs and large-leaved aspen-trees, slender and tall." — 
Bernier. 

5 "The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Ma- 
hometans on this hill, forms one side of a grand portal to 
the Lake." — Forster 



But never yet, by night or day, 
In dew of spring or summer's ray, 
Did the sweet Valley shine so gay 
As now it shines — all love and light, 
Visions by day and feasts by night ! 
A happier smile illumes each brow, 

With quicker spread each heart uncloses, 
And all is ecstasy, — for now 

The Valley holds its Feast of Roses. 1 
That joyous time, when pleasures pour 
Profusely round, and in their shower 
Hearts open, like the Season's Rose, — 

The flowret of a hundred leaves, 2 
Expanding while the dew-fall flows, 

And every leaf its balm receives ! 
'Twas when the hour of evening came 

Upon the Lake, serene and cool, 
When Day had hid his sultry flame 

Behind the palms of Baramoule. 3 
When maids began to lift their heads, 
Refresh'd, from their embroider'd beds, 
Where they had slept the sun away, 
And wak'd to moonlight and to play. 
All were abroad — the busiest hive 
On Be la's 4 hills is less alive 
When saffron beds are full in flower, 
Than look'd the Valley at that hour. 
A thousand restless torches play'd 
Through every grove and island shade ; 
A thousand sparkling lamps were set 
On every dome and minaret ; 
And fields and pathways, far and near, 
Were lighted by a blaze so clear, 
That you could see, in wandering round, 
The smallest rose-leaf on the ground. 
Yet did the maids and matrons leave 
Their veils at home, that brilliant eve ; 
And there were glancing eyes about, 
And cheeks, that would not dare shine out 
In open day, but thought they might 
Look lovely then, because 'twas night ! 
And all were free, and wandering, 

And all exclaim' d to all they met 
That never did the summer bring 

So gay a Feast of Roses yet ; — 
The moon had never shed a light 

So clear as that which bless'd them there ; 
The roses ne'er shone half so bright, 

Nor they themselves look'd half so fair 
And what a wilderness of flowers ! 
It seem'd as though from all the bowers 
And fairest fields of all the year, 
The mingled spoil were scatter'd here. 
The Lake, too, like a garden breathes, 

With the rich buds that o'er it lie, — 
As if a shower of fairy wreaths 

Had fall'n upon it from the sky ! 
And then the sounds of joy — the beat 
Of tabors and of dancing feet ; — 



1 "The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of th»ii 
remaining in bloom." — See Pietro de la Valle. 

2 " Gul sad berk, the Rose of a hundred leaves. I believe 
a particular species." — Ouseley. 

3 Bernier. 

4 A place mentioned in the Toozei Jehangeery, or Me- 
moirs of" Jehanguire, where there is in account of the beds 
of saffron flowers about Cashmere 



78 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The minaret-cryer's chaunt of glee 

Sung from his lighted gallery, 1 

And answer' d by a ziraleet 

From neighbouring Haram, wild and sweet ; — 

The merry laughter, echoing 

From gardens, where the silken swing 

Wafts some delighted girl above 

The top leaves of the orange grove ; 

Or, from those infant groups at play 

Among the tents 2 that line the way, 

Flinging, unaw'd by slave or mother, 

Handfuls of roses at each other ! — 

And the sounds from the Lake, — the low whisp'ring 

boats, 
As they shoot through the moonlight ; — the dipping 

of oars, 
And the wild, airy warbling that every where floats, 
Through the groves, round the islands, as if ail the 

shores 
Like those of Kathay utter'd music, and gave 
An answer in song to the kiss of each wave ! 3 
But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling, 
That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing, — 
Some lover, who knows all the heart-touching power 
Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. 
Oh ! best of delights, as it every where is, 
To be near the lov'd One, — what a rapture is his 
Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide 
O'er the Lake of Cashmere, with that One by his side ! 
If Woman can make the worst wilderness dear, 
Think, think what a heav'n she must make of Cash- 



So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar, 4 

When from power and pomp and the trophies of war 

He flew to that Valley, forgetting them all 

With the Light of the Haram, his young Nourmahal. 

When free and uncrown'd as the Conqueror rov'd 

By the banks of that Lake, with his only bslov'd, 

He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch 

From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match, 

And preferr'd in his heart the least ringlet that curl'd 

Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world ! 

There 's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, 
Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light, 
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, 
Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour. 
This was not the beauty — oh ! nothing like this, 
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss ; 
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 
Like the light upon Autumn's soft shadowy days, 



1 "It is the custom among the women to employ the 
Maazeen to chaunt from the gallery of the nearest minaret, 
which on that occasion is illuminated, and the women as- 
sembled at the house respond at intervals with a ziraleet or 
joyous chorus." — Russell. 

2 " At the keeping of the Feast of Roses we beheld an 
infinite number of tents pitched, with such a crowd of men, 
women, boys and girls, with music, dances," etc. etc. — 
Herbert. 

3 " An old commentator of the Chou-King says, the an- 
cients having remarked that a current of water made some 
of the stones near its banks send forth a sound, they detached 
nome of them, and being charmed with the delightful sound 
Jiey emitted, constructed King or musical instruments of 

hem." — Grosier. 

4 Jehanijuire was the son of the Great Acbar 



Now here, and now there, giving warmth as it flies 
From the lips to tne cheeks, from the cheek to th 

eyes, 
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, 
Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav'n in his dreams' 
When pensive it seem'd as if that very grace, 
That charm of all others, was born with her face ,• 
And when angry, — for e'en in the tranquil lest clime* 
Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes — 
The short passing anger but seem'd to awaken 
New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when 

shaken. 
If tenderness touch d her, the dark of her eye 
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, 
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings 
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings. 
Then her mirth — oh ! 'twas sportive as ever took wing 
From the heart with a burst, like a wild-bird in Spring : 
Ilium' d by a wit that would fascinate sages, 
Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages. 1 
While her laugh, full of life, without any controul 
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul; 
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover 
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all over, — 
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, 
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. 
Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gave 
Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East, for her slave ; 
And though bright was his Haram, — a living parterre 
Of the flowers 2 of this planet — though treasures were 

there, 
For which Soliman's self might have given all the 

store 
That the navy from Ophir e'er wing'd to his shore, 
Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all, 
And the Light of his Haram was young Nourmahal. 1 

But where is she now, this night of joy, 

When bliss is every heart's employ ? — 

When all around her is so bright, 

So like the visions of a trance, 

That one might think, who came by chance 

Into the vale this happy night, 

He saw the City of Delight 3 

In fairy-land, whose streets and towers 

Are made of gems and light and flowers ! 

Where is the lov'd Sultana ? where, 

When mirth brings out the young and fair, 

Does she, the fairest, hide her brow, 

In melancholy stillness now ? 

Alas — how light a cause may move 

Dissensions between hearts that love ! 

Hearts that the world in vain had tried ; 

And sorrow but more closely tied ; 

That stood the storm, when waves were rough, 

Yet in a sunny hour fall off, 

Like ships that have gone down at sea, 

When heav'n was all tranquillity ! 



1 " In the wars of the Dives with the Peris, whenever the 
former took the latter prisoners, they shut them up in iron 
cages, and hung them on the highest trees. Here they wer<\ 
visited by their companions, who brought them the choicest 
odours." — Richardson. 

2 In the Malay language the same word signifies vvomew 
and flowers. 

3 The capital of Shadukiam. See note, p. 54 



J 



LALLA ROOKH. 



79 



A something, light as air — a look, 

A word unkind, or wrongly taken — 
Oh ! love, that tempests never shook, 

A breath, a touch like this hath shaken. 
And ruder words will soon rush in 
To spread the breach that words begin : 
And eyes forget the gentle ray 
They wore in courtship's smiling day ; 
And voices lose the tone that shed 
A tenderness round all they said ; 
Till fast declining, one by one, 
The sweetnesses of love are gone, 
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
Like broken clouds, — or like the stream, 
That smiling left the mountain's brow, 

As though its waters ne'er could sever, 
Yet, ere it reach the plain below, 

Breaks into floods, that part for ever. 

Oh you, that have the charge of Love, 

Keep him in rosy bondage bound, 
As in the Fields of Bliss above 

He sits, with flowrets fetter'd round; 1 — 
Loose not a tie that round him clings, 
Nor ever let him use his wings ; 
For ev'n an hour, a minute's flight 
Will rob the plumes of half their light. 
Like that celestial bird, — whose nest 

Is found beneath far Eastern skies, — 
Whose wings ; though radiant when at rest, 

Lose all their glory when he flies ! 2 
Some difference, of this dangerous kind, — 
By which, though light, the links that bind 
The fondest hearts may soon be riven ; 
Some shadow in love's summer heaven, 
Which, though a fleecy speck at first, 
May yet in awful thunder burst ; — 
Such cloud it is, that now hangs over 
The heart of the Imperial Lover, 
And far hath banish'd from his sight 
His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light ! 
Hence is it, on this happy night, 
When Pleasure through the fields and groves 
Has let loose all her world of loves, 
And every heart has found its own, — 
He wanders, joyless and alone, 
And weary as that bird of Thrace, 
Whose pinion knows no resting-place. 3 
In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes 
This Eden of the earth supplies 

Come crowding round — the cheeks are pale, 
The eyes are dim — though rich the spot 
With every flower this earth has got, 

What is it to the nightingale, 
If there his darling rose is not ? 4 



1 See the representation of the Eastern Cupid pinioned 
closely round with wreaths of flowers, in PicarVs Ceremonies 
Religieuses. 

2 " Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of goldfinch, 
which sings so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. 
Its wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beau- 
tiful colours, but when it flies they lose all their splendour." — 
Grosier. 

3 " As these birds on the Bosphorus are never known to 
test, t^cy are called by the French ' les ames damnees." — 
Dalluway. 

4 " You may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs 
and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not, in his 



In vain the Valley's smiling throng 
Worship him, as he moves along ; 
He heeds them not — one smile of hers 
Is worth a world of worshippers; 
They but the Star's adorers are, 
She is the Heav'n that lights the Star! 

Hence is it too, that Nourmahal, 

Amid the luxuries of this hour, 
Far from the joyous festival, 

Sits in her own sequester'd bower, 
With no one near, to soothe or aid, 
But that inspir'd and wond'rous maid, 
Namotjna, the Enchantress ; — one, 
O'er whom his race the golden sun 
For unremember'd years has run, 
Yet never saw her blooming brow 
Younger or fairer than 'tis now. 
Nay, rather, as the west wind's sigh 
Freshens the flower it passes by, 
Time's wing but seem'd, in stealing o'er, 
To leave her lovelier than before. 
Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, 
And when, as oft, she spoke or sung 
Of other worlds, there came a light 
From her dark eyes so strangely bright, 
That all believ'd nor man nor earth 
Were conscious of Namotjna' s birth ! 
All spells and talismans she knew, 

From the great Mantra, 1 which around 
The Air's sublimer Spirits drew, 

To the gold gems 2 of Afric, bound 
Upon the wandering Arab's arm, 
To keep him from the Siltim's 3 harm. 
And she had pledged her powerful art, 
Pledg'd it with all the zeal and heart 
Of one who knew, though high her sphere, 
What 'twas to lose a love so dear, 
To find some spell that should recall 
Her Selim's 6 smile to Nourmahal ! 

'Twas midnight — through the lattice, wreath'd 
With woodbine, many a perfume breath'd 
From plants that wake when others sleep, 
From timid jasmine buds, that keep 
Their odour to themselves all day, 
But, when the sun-light dies away, 
Let the delicious secret out 
To every breeze that roams about ; — 
When thus Namouna : — " 'Tis the hour 
That scatters spells on herb and flower, 
And garlands might be gather'd now, 
That, twin'd around the sleeper's brow, 
Would make him dream of such delights, 
Such miracles and dazzling sights, 



constant heart, for more than the sweet breath of his be- 
loved rose." — Jami. 

1 " He is said to have found the great Mantra, spell or 
talisman, through which he ruled over the elements and 
spirits of all denominations." — Wilford. 

2 "The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the 
Arabs El Herrez, from the supposed charm they contain." — 
Jackson. 

3 " A demon, supposed to haunt woods, &c. in a human 
shape." — Richardson. 

4 " The name of Jehanguire before his accession to the 
throne. 



IL, 



so 



MOORE'S WORKS 



As Genii of the Sun behold, 
At evening, from their tents of gold 
Upon the horizon — where they play 
Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray, 
Their sunny mansions melt away ! 
Now, too, a chaplet might be wreath'd 
Of buds o'er which the moon has breath'd, 
Which worn by her, whose love has stray'd, 

Might bring some Peri from the skies, 
Some sprite, whose very soul is made 

Of flowrets' breaths, and lovers' sighs, 
And who might tell '1 

" For me, for me,' 1 
Cried Nourmahal impatiently, — 
u Oh ! twine that wreath for me to-night." 
Then rapidly, with foot as light 
As the young musk-roe's, out she flew 
To cull each shining leaf that grew 
Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams 
For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams. 
Anemones and Seas of Gold, 1 

And new-blown lilies of the river, 
And those sweet flowrets, that unfold 

Their buds on Camedeva's quiver ; 2 — 
The tube-rose, with her silvery light, 

That in the Gardens of Malay 
Ts call'd the Mistress of the Night, 3 
So like a bride, scented and bright, 

She comes out when the sun's away. — 
Amaranths, such as crown the maids 
That wander through Zamara's shades ; 4 — 
And the white moon-flower, as it shows 
On Serendib's high crags to those 
Who near the isle at evening sail, 
Scenting her clove-trees in the gale j— ■ 
In short, all flowrets and all plants, 

From the divine Amrita tree, 5 
That blesses heaven's inhabitants 

With fruits of immortality, 
Down to the basil 6 tuft, that waves 
Its fragrant blossom over graves, 

And to the humble rosemary, 
Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed 
To scent the desert 7 — and the dead, — 
All in that garden bloom, and all 
Are gather'd by young Nourmahal, 



1 " Hemasagare, or the Sea of Gold, witli flowers of the 
brightest gold colour." — Sir W. Jones. 

2 " This tree (the Nagacesara) is one of the most de- 
lightful on earth, and the delicious odour of its blossoms 
justly gives them a place in the quiver of Camadeva, orthe 
God of Love." — Id. 

3" The Malayans style the tube-rose (Polianthes tnbe- 
rosa) Sandal Malam, or the Mistress of the Night." — Pen- 
nant. 

4 The people of the Batta country in Sumatra (of which 
Zamara is one of the ancient names) "when not engaged in 
war, lead an idle, inactive life, passing the day in playing on 
a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of flowers, among 
which the globe-amaranthus, a native of the country, most- 
ly prevails." — Marsden. 

5 " The largest and richest sort (of the Jambu or rose- 
apple) is called Amrita or immortal, and the mycologists 
of Tibet apply the same word to a celestial tree, bearing 
ambrosial fruit." — .Sir W. Jones. 

6 Sweet-basil, called Rayhan in Persia, and generally 
found in church-yards. 

7 " In the Great Desert are found many stalks of lavendei 
and rosemary " — Asiat. Res. 



Who heaps her baskets with the flowers 
And leaves, till they can hold no more, 

Then to Namouna flies, and showers 
Upon her lap the shining store. 

With what delight th' Enchantress viewg 

So many buds, bath'd with the dews 

And beams of that bless'd hour ! — her glance 

Spoke something, past all mortal pleasures, 
As, in a kind of holy trance, 

She hung above those fragrant treasures, 
Bending to drink their balmy airs, 
As if she mix'd her soul with theirs. 
And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed 
From flow'rs and scented flame that fed 
Her charmed life — for none had e'er 
Beheld her taste of mortal fare, 
Nor ever in aught earthly dip, 
But the morn's dew, her roseate lip. 
Fill'd with the cool, inspiring smell, 
Th' Enchantress now begins her spell, 
Thus singing, as she winds and weaves 
In mystic form the glittering leaves — 

I know where the winged visions dwell 

That around the night-bed play ; 
I know each herb and flowret's bell, 
Where they hide their wings by day. 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 
The image of love, that nightly flies 

To visit the bashful maid, 
Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs 

Its soul, like her, in the shade. 
The hope, in dreams, of a happier hour 

That alights on misery's brow, 
Springs out of the silvery almond-flower, 
That blooms on a leafless bough, 1 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 

The visions that oft to worldly eyes 

The glitter of mines unfold, 
Inhabit the mountain-herb, 2 that dyes 

The tooth of the fawn like gold. 
The phantom shapes — oh touch not them — 

That appal the murderer's sight, 
Lurk in the fleshy mandrake's stem, 
That shrieks, when torn at night ! 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade 
The dream of the injur'd, patient mind, 

That smiles at the wrongs of men, 
Is found in the bruis'd and wounded rind 
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then ! 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 






] 



1 " The almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the 
bare branches." — Hasselquist. 

2 An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to comm'i 
nicate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and 
other animals that graze upon it. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



81 



No sooner was the flowery crown 

Plac'd on her head, than sleep came down, 

Gently as nights of summer fall, 

Upon the lids of Nourmahal; — 

And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze, 

As full of small, rich harmonies 

As ever wind, that o'er the tents 

Of Azab 1 blew, was full of scents, 

Steals on her ear and floats and swells, 

Like the first air of morning creeping 
Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells, 

Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping; 2 — 
And now a spirit form'd, 'twould seem, 

Of music and of light, so fair, 
So brilliantly his features beam, 

And such a sound is in the air 
Of sweetness, when he waves his wings, 
Hovers around her, and thus sings : — 

From Chindara's 3 warbling fount I come, 
Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell; 
From Chindara's fount, my fairy home, 

Where in music morn and night, I dwell; 
Where lutes in the air are heard about, 

And voices are singing the whole day long, 
And every sigh the heart breathes out 
Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song ! 
Hither I come, 
From my fairy home, 
And if there 's a magic in Music's strain, 
I swear by the breath 
Of that moonlight wreath, 
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 

For mine is the lay that lightly floats, 
And mine are murmuring, dying notes, 
That fall as soft as snow on the sea, 
And melt in the heart as instantly ! 
And the passionate strain that, deeply going, 

Refines the bosom it trembles through, 
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing, 

Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too! 

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway 
The Spirits of past Delight obey: 
Let but the tuneful talisman sound, 
And they come, like Genii, hovering round. 
As mine is the gentle song, that bears 

From soul to soul, the wishes of love, 
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs 

The cinnamon seed from grove to grove.* 
'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure 
The past, the present, and future of pleasure ; 
When Memory links the tone that is gone 

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear: 



1 The myrrh country. 

2 " This idea (of deities living in shells) was not unknown 
to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the 
Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea."— 
Wilford. 

3 " A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be 
constantly playing." — Richardson. 

4 " The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by 
carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a 
great disseminator of this valuable tree."— See Brown's 
Illustr. Tab. 19. 



And Hope from a heavenly note flies on, 

To a note more heavenly still that is near ! 
The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, 
Can as downy soft and as yielding be, 
As his own white plume, that high amid death 
Through the field has shone — yet moves w.th a 

breath. 
And, oh, how the eyes of beauty glisten, 

When Music has reach'd her inward soul, 
Like th' silent stars, that wink and listen 
While Heav'n's eternal melodies roll ! 
So, hither I come, 
From my fairy home, 
And if there's a magic in Music's strain, 
I swear by the breath 
Of that moonlight wreath, 
Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 



'Tis dawn — at least that earlier dawn, 
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn, 1 
As if the morn had wak'd, and then 
Shut close her lids of light again. 
And Nourmahal is up, and trying 

The wonders of her lute, whose strings— 
Oh bliss ! — now murmur like the sighing 

From that ambrosial Spirit's wings ! 
And then, her voice — 'tis more than human— 
Never, till now, had it been given 
To lips of any mortal woman 

To utter notes so fresh from heaven ; 
Sweet as the breath of angel sighs, 

When angel sighs are most divine.— 
" Oh ! let it last till night," she cries, 

' And he is more than ever mine." 
And hourly she renews the lay, 

So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness 
Should, ere the evening, fade away, — 

For things so heavenly have such fleetness ! 
But, far from fading, it but grows 
Richer, diviner as it flows ; 
Till rapt she dwells on every string, 
And pours again each sound along, 
Like Echo, lost and languishing 

In love with her own wondrous song. 
That evening, (trusting that his soul 

Might be from haunting love releaa'd 
By mirth, by music, and the bow r l) 

Th' Imperial Selim held a Feast 
In his magnificent Shalimar; 
In whose Saloons, when the first star 
Of evening o'er the waters trembled, 
The Valley's loveliest all assembled ; 
All the bright creatures that, like dreams. 
Glide through its foliage, and drink beams 
Of beauty from its founts and streams, 2 
And all those wandering minstrel-maids, 
Who leave — how can they leave? — the shades 
Of that dear Valley, and are found 



1 " They have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim, and the 
Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real day-break." — Waring. 

2 " The waters of Cachemir are the more renowned frojn 
its being supposed that the Cachemirians are indebted for 
their beauty to them." — Mi Yezdi 



62 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Singing in gardens of the South 1 
Those songs, that ne'er so sweetly sound 
As from a young Cashmerian's mouth ; 
There too the Haram's inmates smile ; — 

Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair, 
And from the Garden of the Nile, 

Delicate as the roses there ; 2 
Daughters of Love from Cyprus' rocks, 
With Paphian diamonds in their locks ; 3 
Light Peri forms, such as there are 
On the gold meads of Candahar ; 4 
And they, before whose sleepy eyes, 

In their own bright Kathaian bowers, 
Sparkle such rainbow butterflies, 5 

That they might fancy the rich flowers, 
That round them in the sun lay sighing, 
■ Had been by magic all set flying ! 

Every thing young, every thing fair 
From East and West is blushing there. 
Except — except — oh Nourmahal ! 
Thou loveliest, dearest of them all, 
The one, whose smile shone out alone, 
Amidst a world the only one ! ■ 
Whose light, among so nvvny lights, 
Was like that star, on starry nights, 
The seaman singles from the sky, 
To steer his bark for ever by ! 
Thou wert not there — so Selim thought, 

And every thing seem'd drear without thee : 
But ah ! thou wert, thou wert — and brought 

Thy charm of song all fresh about thee. 
Mingling unnotic'd with a band 
Of lutanists from many a land, 
And veil'd by such a mask as shades 
The features of young Arab maids, — 6 
A mask that leaves but one eye free, 
To do its best in witchery, — 
She rov'd, with beating heart, around, 

And waited, trembling, for the minute, 
When she might try if still the sound 

Of her lov'd lute had magic in it. 

The board was spread with fruits and wine ; 
With grapes of gold, like those that shine 
On Casbin's hills ; 7 — pomegranates full 



1 " From him I received the following little Gazzel, or 
Love Song, the notes of which he committed to paper from 
the voice of one of those singing girls of Cachmere, who 
wander from that delightful valley over the various parts of 
India." — Persian Miscellanies. 

2 "• The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile, 
(attached to the Emperor of Morocco's palace) are une- 
qualled, and mattresses are made of their leaves for men of 
rank to recline upon." — Jackson. 

3 " On vhe side of a mountain near Paphos there is a 
cavern which produces the most beautiful rock crystal. On 
account of its brilliancy it has been called the Paphian dia- 
mond." — Mariti. 

4 " There is a part of Candahar, called Peria or Fairy 
Land." — Thevenot. In some of those countries to the North 
of India vegetable gold is supposed to be produced. 

5 " These are the butterflies, which are called in the Chi- 
nese language Flying Leaves. Some of them have such 
shining colours, and are so variegated, that they may be 
called flying flowers ; and indeed they are always produced 
in the finest flower-gardens." — Dunn. 

6 "The Arabian women wear black masks with little 
clasps, prettily ordered." — Carreri. Niebuhr mentions 
their showing but one eye in conversation. 

7 " The golden grapes of Casbin."— Description of Per- 
tia. 



Of melting sweetness, and the pears 
And sunniest apples that Caubul 1 

In all its thousand gardens 2 bears. 
Plantains, the golden and the green, 
Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen; 3 
Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts 

From the far groves of Samarkand, 
And Basra dates, and apricots, 
Seed of the Sun, 4 from Iran's land ; — 
With rich conserve of Visna cherries, 5 
Of Orange flowers, and of those berries 
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles 
Feed on in Erac's rocky dells. 6 
All these in richest vases smile, 

In baskets of pure sandal-wood, 
And urns of porcelain from that isle 7 

Sunk underneath the Indian flood, 
Whence oft the lucky diver brings 
Vases to grace the halls of kings. 
Wines too, of every clime and hue, 
Around their liquid lustre threw ; 
Amber Rosolli, 8 — the bright dew 
From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing ;' 
And Shiraz wine, that richly ran 

As if that jewel, large and rare, 
The ruby, for which Cublai-Chan 
Offer'd a city's wealth, 10 was blushing 

Melted within the goblets there ! 

And amply Selim quaffs of each, 

And seems resolv'd the floods shall reach 

His inward heart — shedding around 

A genial deluge, as they run, 
That soon shall leave no spot undrown'd, 

For Love to rest his wings upon. 

He little knew how well the boy 

Can float upon a goblet's streams, 
Lighting them with his smile of joy ; — 

As bards have seen him, in their dreams, 
Down the blue Ganges laughing glide 

Upon a rosy lotus wreath, 11 
Catching new lustre from the tide 

That with his image shone beneath. 



1 " The fruits exported from Caubul are apples, pears, 
pomegranates, etc." — Elphinstone. 

2 ""We sat down under a tree, listened to the birds, and 
talked with the son of our Mehmaunder about our country 
and Caubul, of which he gave an enchanting account: that 
city and its 100,000 gardens, etc."— Id. 

3 " The Mangusteen, the most delicate fruit in the world; 
the pride of theMalay Islands." — Marsden. 

4 "A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persians 
tokm-ed-shems, signifying sun's seed." — Description of 
Persia. 

5 " Sweetmeats in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves 
in conserve, with lemon or Visna cherry, orange flowers, 
etc." — Russel. 

6 " Antelopes cropping the fresh berries of Erac." — The 
Moallakat, a poem of Tarafa. 

7 Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to 
have been sunk in the sea for the crimes of its inhabitants. 
The vessels which the fishermen and divers bring up from 
it are sold at an immense price in China and Japan. — See 
Kempfer. 

8 Persian Tales. 9 The white wine of Kishma. 

10 " The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest 
ruby that was ever seen, Kublai-Kahn sent and ofFered the 
value of a city for it, but the King answered he would not 
give it for the treasure of the world." — Marco Polo. 

11 The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen floating 
down the Ganges on the Nymphtea Nelumbo.— See Pen- 
nant. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



83 



But what are cups, without the aid 

Of song to speed them as they flow? 
And see — a lovely Georgian maid, 

With all the bloom, the freshen'd glow 
Of her own country maidens' looks, 
When warm they rise from Tefus' brooks ;' 
And with an eye, whose restless ray, 

Full, floating, dark — oh he, who knows 
His heart is weak, of heav'n should pray, 

To guard him from such eyes as those !— 
With a voluptuous wildness flings 
Her snowy hand across the strings 
Of a syrinda, 2 and thus sings : — 



Come hither, come hither — by night and by day, 
We linger in pleasures that never are gone ; 

Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away 
Another as sweet and as shining comes on. 

And the love that is o'er, in expiring gives birth 
To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss ; 

And oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this. 

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh 
As the flower of the Amra just op'd by a bee ; 3 

And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,* 
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. 

Oh ! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth. 
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss , 

And own, if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this. 

Here sparkles the nectar, that hallow'd by love, 
Could draw down those angels of old from their 
sphere, 

Who for wine of this earth 5 left the fountains above, 
And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have 
here. 
And, bless'd with the odour our goblets give forth, 

What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss ? 
For oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this. 



The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, 

When the same measure, sound for sound, 
Was caught up by another lute, 

And so divinely breath'd around, 
That all stood hush'd and wondering, 

And turn'd and look'd into the air, 
As if they thought to see the wing 

Of Israfil, 6 the Angel, there ; — 
So powerfully on every soul 
That new, enchanted measure stole. 
While now a voice, sweet as the note 
Of the charm'd lute, was heard to float 
Along its chords, and so entwine 

Its sound with theirs, that none knew whether 



1 Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm baths. — See 
Ebn Haukal. 

2 "The Indian Syrinda or guitar."— Symes. 

3 " Delightful are the flowers of the Amra-trees on the 
mountain tops, while the murmuring bees pursue their vo- 
luptuous toil." — Song of Jayadeva. 

4 "The Nisan, or drops of spring rain, which they believe 
to produce pearls if they fall into shells." — Richardson. 

5 For an account of the share which wine had in the fall 
of the angels — see Mariti. 

6 The Angel of Music, see note, p. 72. 



The voice or lute was most divine, 
So wond'rously they went together : 



There 's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told. 
When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie, 

With heart never changing and brow never cold, 
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die ] 

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth 
Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; 

And oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this. 



'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words, 
But that deep, magic in the chords 
And in the lips, that gave such power 
As music knew not till that hour. 
At once a hundred voices said, 
" It is the mask'd Arabian maid !" 
While Seum, who had felt the strain 
Deepest of any, and had lain 
Some minutes wrapt, as in a trance, 

After the fairy sounds were o'er, 
Too inly touch' d for utterance, 

Now motion'd with his hand for more : — 



Fly to the desert, fly with me, 
Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 
But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt 
Of tents with love, or thrones without ? 

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there 
Th' acacia waves her yellow hair, 
Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less 
For flowering in a wilderness. 

Our sands are bare, but down their slope 
The silvery-footed antelope 
As gracefully and gaily springs 
As o'er the marble courts of kings. 

Then come — thy Arab maid will be 
The lov'd and lone acacia-tree, 
The antelope, whose feet shall bless 
With their light sound thy loneliness. 

Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart 
An instant sunshine through the heart,— 
As if the soul that minute caught 
Some treasure it through life had sought ; 

As if the very lips and eyes 
Predestin'd to have all our sighs, 
And never be forgot again, 
Sparkled and spoke before us then ! 

So came thy every glance and tone, 
When first on me they breath'd and shone ; 
New, as if brought from other spheres, 
Yet welcome as if lov'd for years ! 

Then fly with me, — if thou hast known 
No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
Should ever in thy heart be worn. 

Come, if the love thou hast for me 
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee — 



84 



MOOR S WORKS. 



Fresh as the fountain under ground 
When first 'tis by the lapwing found. 1 

But if for me thou dost forsake 
Some other maid, and rudely break 
He' worshipp'd image from its base, 
To give to me the ruin'd place ; — 

Then fare thee well— I'd rather make 
My bower upon some icy lake- 
When thawing suns begin to shine, 
Than trust to love so false as thine ! 



There was a pathos in this lay, 

That, e'en without enchantment's art, 
Would instantly have found its way 

Deep into Se lim's burning heart ; 
But breathing, as it did, a tone 
To earthly lutes and lips unknown, 
With every chord fresh from the touch 
Of Music's Spirit, — 'twas too much ! 
Starting, he dash'd away the cup, — 

Which, all the time of this sweet air, 
His hand had held, untasted, up, 

As if 'twere held by magic there, — 
And naming her, so long unnam'd, 

" Oh NOURMAIIAL ! oh NOURMAHAL ! 

Had'st thou but sung this witching strain, 
I could forget — forgive thee all, 
And never leave those eyes again." 

The mask is off-^the charm is wrought — ■ 
And Selim to his heart has caught, 
In blushes, more than ever bright, 
His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light! 
And well do vanish'd frowns enhance 
The charm of every brighten'd glance ; 
And dearer seems each dawning smile 
For having lost its light awhile ; 
And, happier now for all her sighs, 

As on his arm her head reposes, 
She whispers him, with laughing eyes, 

" Remember, love, the Feast of Roses !" 



Fadladeen, at the conclusion of this light rhap- 
sody, took occasion to sum up his opinion of the 
young Cashmerian's poetry, — of which, he trusted, 
they had that evening heard the last. Having recapi- 
tulated the epithets, " frivolous" — " inharmonious" — 
"nonsensical," he proceeded to say that, viewing it 
in the most favourable light, it resembled one of those 
Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded 
in the relation of her dream, 2 — a slight, gilded thing, 
sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with nothing 
but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The 
profusion, indeed, of flowers and birds, which this 
poet had ready on all occasions, — not to mention 
dews, gems, etc. — was a most oppressive kind of 
opulence to his hearers ; and had the unlucky effect 
of giving to his style all the glitter of the flower-gar- 
den witnout its method, and all the flutter of the 



1 The Hutlhud or Lapwing, is supposed to have the power 
Df discovering water under ground. 

2 See page 65. 



aviary without its song. In addition to this, he chose 
his subjects badly, and was always most inspired by the 
worst parts of them. The charms of paganism; the 
merits of rebellion, — these were the themes honoured 
with his particular enthusiasm ; and, in the poem just 
recited, one of his most palatable passages was in 
praise of that beverage of the unfaithful, wine; "be- 
ing, perhaps," said he, relaxing into a smile, as con- 
scious of his own character in the Haram on this 
point, " one of those bards, whose fancy owes all its 
illumination to the grape, like that painted porcelain, 
so curious and so rare, whose images are only visible 
when liquor is poured into it." Upon the whole, i' 
was his opinion, from the specimens which they had 
heard, and which, he begged to say, were the most 
tiresome part of the journey, that — whatever other 
merits this well dressed young gentleman might pos- 
sess — poetry was by no means his proper avocation : 
"and indeed," concluded the critic, "from his fqnd- 
ness for flowers and for birds, I would venture to 
suggest that a florist or a bird-catcher is a much more 
suitable calling for him than a poet." 

They had now begun to ascend those barren 
mountains, which separate Cashmere from the rest 
of India ; and, as the heats were intolerable, and the 
time of their encampments limited to the few hours 
necessary for refreshment and repose, there was an 
end to all their delightful evenings, and Lax, LA Rookh 
saw no more of Feramorz. She now felt that her 
short dream of happiness was over, and that she had 
nothing but the recollection of its few blissful hours, 
like the one draught of sweet water that serves the 
camel across the wilderness, to be her heart's re- 
freshment during the dreary waste of life that was 
before her. The blight that had fallen upon her 
spirits soon found its way to her cheek, and her ladies 
saw with regret — though not without some suspicion 
of the cause — that the beauty of their mistress, of 
which they were almost as proud as of their own 
was fast vanishing away at the very moment of all 
when she had most need of it. What must the King 
of Bucharia feel, when, instead of the lively and 
beautiful Lalla Rookh, whom the poets of Delhi 
had described as more perfect than the divinest 
images in the House of Azor, he should receive a pale 
and inanimate victim, upon whose cheek neither 
health nor pleasure bloomed, and from whose eyes 
Love had fled, — to hide himself in her heart ! 

If any thing could have charmed away the melan- 
choly of her spirits, it would have been the fresh airs 
and enchuiting scenery of that Valley, which the 
Persians so justly called the Unequalled. 1 But nei 
ther the coolness of its atmosphere, so luxurious aftei 
toiling up those bare and burning mountains — neither 
the splendour of the minarets and pagodas, that shonv 
out from the depth of its woods, nor the grottos, her 
mitages, and miraculous fountains, which rr>ake eveiy 
spot of that region holy ground ; — neither the couni- 
j less water-falls, that rush into the Valley from all thoso 
high and romantic mountains that encircle it, nor ths 
fair city on the Lake, whose houses, roofed with 
flowers, appeared at a distance like one vast and varie- 
gated parterre ;— not all these wonders and glories 
of the most lovely country under the sun could stea* 1 



1 Kachmire be Na/.eer —Forstsr 



LALLA ROOKH. 



85 



her heart for a minute from those sad thoughts, which 
but darkened and grew bitterer every step she advanced. 
The gay pomps and processions that met her upon 
her entrance into the Valley, and the magnificence 
with which the roads all along were decorated, did 
honour to the taste and gallantry of the young King. 
It was night when they approached the city, and, for 
the last two miles, they had passed under arches, 
thrown from hedge to hedge, festooned with only 
those rarest roses from which the Attar Gul, more 
precious than gold, is distilled, and illuminated in 
rich and fanciful forms with lanterns of the triple- 
coloured tortoise-shell of Pegu. Sometimes, from a 
dark wood by the side of the road, a display of fire- 
works would break out, so sudden and so brilliant, 
that a Bramin might think he saw that grove, in whose 
purple shade the God of Battles was born, bursting 
into a flame at the moment of his birth. — While, at 
other times, a quick and playful irradiation continued 
to brighten all the fields and gardens by which they 
passed, forming a line of dancing lights along the 
horizon ; like the meteors of the north as they are 
seen by those hunters, who pursue the white and blue 
foxes on the confines of the Icy Sea. 

These arches and fire-works delighted the ladies 
of the Princess exceedingly ; and, with their usual 
good logic, they deduced from his taste for illumina- 
tions, that the King of Bucharia would make the most 
exemplary husband imaginable. Nor, indeed, could 
Lalla Rookh herself help feeling the kindness and 
splendour with which the young bridegroom welcom- 
ed her ; — but she also felt how painful is the gratitude, 
which kindness from those we cannot love excites ; 
and that their best blandishments come over the heart 
with all that chilling and deadly sweetness, which we 
can fancy in the cold, odoriferous wind that is to blow 
over the earth in the last days. 

The marriage was fixed for the morning after her 
arrival, when she was, for the first time, to be pre- 
sented to the monarch in that Imperial Palace be- 
yond the lake, called the Shalimar. Though a night 
of more wakeful and anxious thought had never 
been passed in the Happy Valley before, yet, when 
she rose in the morning, and her ladies came round 
her, to assist in the adjustment of the bridal orna- 
ments, they thought they had never seen her look 
half so beautiful. What she had lost of the bloom 
and radiancy of her charms was more than made up 
by that intellectual expression, that soul in the eyes 
which is worth all the rest of loveliness. When they 
had tinged her fingers with the Henna leaf, and placed 
upon her brow a small coronet of jewels, of the shape 
worn by the ancient Queens of Bucharia, they flung 
over her head the rose-coloured bridal veil, and she 
proceeded to the barge that was to convey her across 
the lake; — first kissing, with a mournful look, the 
little amulet of cornelian which her father had hung 
aoout her neck at parting. 

The morning was as fair as the maid upon whose 
nuptials it rose, and the shining lake, all covered with 
boats, the minstrels playing upon the shores of the 
islands, and the crowded summer-houses on the green 
hills around, with shawls and banners waving from 
Jieir roofs, presented such a picture of animated re- 
joicing, as only she, who was the object of it all, did 



not feel with transport. To Lalla Rookh alone it 
was a melancholy pageant ; nor could she have ever 
borne to look upon the scene, were it not for a hope 
that, among the crowds around, she might once more 
perhaps catch a glimpse of Feramorz. So much 
was her imagination haunted by this thought, that 
there was scarcely an islet or boat she passed, at 
which her heart did not flutter with a momentary 
fancy that he was there. Happy, in her eyes, the 
humblest slave upon whom the light of his dear looks 
fell. — In the barge immediately after the Princess was 
Fadladeen, with his silken curtains thrown widely 
apart, that all might have the benefit of his august pre- 
sence, and with his head full of the- speech he was 
to deliver to the King, "concerning Feramorz, and 
literature, and the Chabuk, as connected therewith." 
They had now entered the canal which leads from 
the Lake to the splendid domes and saloons of the 
Shalimar, and glided on through gardens ascending 
from each bank, full of flowering shrubs that made 
the air all perfume ; while from the middle of the 
canal rose jets of water, smooth and unbroken, to 
such a dazzling height, that they stood like pillars of 
diamond in the sunshine. After sailing under the 
arches of various saloons, they at length arrived at 
the last and most magnificent, where the monarch 
awaited the coming of his bride ; and such was the 
agitation of her heart and frame, that it was with dif- 
ficulty she walked up the marble steps, which were 
covered with cloth of gold for her ascent from the 
barge. At the end of the hall stood two thrones, as 
precious as the Cerulean Throne of Koolburga, on 
one of which sat Aliris, the youthful King of Bu- 
charia, and on the other was, in a few minutes, to be 
placed the most beautiful Princess in the world. — 
Immediately upon the entrance of Lalla Rookh 
into the saloon, the monarch descended from his 
throne to meet her ; but scarcely had he time to take 
her hand in his, when she screamed with surprise and 
fainted at his feet. It was Feramorz himself that 
stood before her ! — Feramorz was, himself, the 
Sovereign of Bucharia, who in this disguise had ac- 
companied his young bride from Delhi, and, having 
won her love as an humble minstrel, now amply de- 
served to enjoy it as a King. 

The consternation of Fadladeen at this discovery 
was, for the moment, almost pitiable. But change 
of opinion is a resource too convenient in courts for 
this experienced courtier not to have learned to avail 
himself of it. His criticisms were all, of course, 
recanted instantly; he was seized with an admiration 
of the King's verses, as unbounded, as. he begged 
him to believe, it was disinterested ; and the follow- 
ing week saw him in possession of an additional 
place, swearing by all the Saints of Islam 1 that never 
had there existed so great a poet as the Monarch, Ali- 
ris, and ready to prescribe his favourite regimen of 
the Chabuk for every man, woman, and child that 
dared to think otherwise. 

Of the happiness of the King and Queen of Bucha- 
ria, after such a beginning, there can be but little 
doubt ; and, among the lesser symptoms, it is recorded 
of Lalla Rookh, that, to the day of her death, in 
memory of their delightful journey, she never called 
the King by any other name than Feramorz 



B6 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



NOTES. 



Page 27. 
7 HESE particulars of the visit of the King of Bu- 
charia to Aurtmgzebe are found in Dow's History of 
Hindostan vol. iii. p. 392. 

Page 27, line 16. 
Leila. 
The Mistress of Mejnoun, upon whose story so 
many romances, in all the languages of the East, are 
founded. 

Page 27, line 16. 

Shirine. 
For the loves of this celebrated beauty with Khos- 
rou and with Ferhad, see D'Herbelot, Gibbon, Ori- 
ental Collections, etc. 

Page 27, line 16. 
Dewilde. 
" The history of the loves of Dewilde and Chizer, 
the son of the Emperor Alia, is written in an elegant 
poem, by the noble Chusero." — Ferishta. 

Page 27, line 47. 

Those insignia of the Emperor's favour, etc. 

" One mark of honour or knighthood bestowed by 
trie Emperor, is the permission to wear a small kettle- 
drum, at the bows of their saddles, which at first was 
invented for the training of hawks, and to call them to 
the lure, and is worn in the field by all sportsmen to 
that end." — Fryer 1 s Travels. 

" Those on whom the King has conferred the pri- 
vilege must wear an ornament of jewels on the right 
side of the turban, surmounted by a high plume of 
the feathers of a kind of egret. This bird is found 
only in Cashmere, and the feathers are carefully col- 
lected for the King, who bestows them on his nobles." 
—-Elphinstone's Account of Caubul. 

Page 27, line 52. 
Khedar Khan, etc. 
" Khedar Khan, the Khakan, or King of Turques- 
tan beyond the Gihon (at the end of the eleventh cen- 
tury,) whenever he appeared abroad was preceded by 
seven hundred horsemen with silver battle-axes, and 
* r as followed by an equal number bearing maces of 
gold. He was a great patron of poetry, and it was 
he who used to preside at public exercises of genius, 
with four basins of gold and silver by him to distri- 
bute among the poets who excelled." — Richardson's 
Dissertation prefixed to his Dictionary. 

Page 27, line 54. 

The gilt pine-apple, etc. 

" The kubdeh, a large golden knob, generally in 

the shape of a pine-apple, on the top of the canopy 

over the litter'or palanquin." — Scott's notes on the 

Baharaanush. 

Page 27, line 59. 
The rose-coloured veils of ;he Princess's litter. 
In the poem of Zohair, in the Moallakat, there, 



is the following lively description of " company of 
maidens seated on camels." 

" They are mounted in carriages covered with 
costly awnings, and witk rose-coloured veils, th6 
linings of which have the hue of crimson Andem- 
wood. 

" When they ascend from the bosom of the vale, 
they sit forward on the saddle-cloths, with every 
mark of a voluptuous gaiety. 

" Now, when they have reached the brink of von 
blue gushing rivulet, they fix the poles of their tents 
like the Arab with a settled mansion." 

Page 27, fine 60. 
A young female slave sat fanning her, etc. 
See Bemier's description of the attendants on Rau- . 
chanara-Begum in her progress to Cashmere. 

Page 28, line 13. 
Religion, of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector. 
This hypocritical Emperor would have made a 
worthy associate of certain Holy Leagues. — "He 
held the cloak of religion (says Dow) between his 
actions and the vulgar ; and impiously thanked the 
Divinity for a success which he owed to his own 
wickedness. When he Avas murdering and perse 
cuting his brothers and their families, he was building 
a magnificent mosque at Delhi, as an offering to God 
for his assistance to him in the civil wars. He acted 
as high-priest at the consecration of this temple, and 
made a practice of attending divine service there, in 
the humble dress of a Fakeer. But when he lifted 
one hand to the Divinity, he, with the other, signed 
warrants for the assassination of his relations." — 
History of Hindostan, vol. iii. p. 235. See also the 
curious letter of Aurungzebe, given in the Oriental 
Collections, vol. i. p. 320. 

Page 28, line 15. 

The diamond eyes of the idol, etc. 

" The Idol at Jaghernaut has two fine diamonds 

for eyes. No goldsmith is suffered to enter the 

Pagoda, one having stole one of these eyes, being 

locked up all night with the Idol." — Tavernier. 

Page 28, line 19. 
Garden? of Shalimar. 
See a description of these royal Gardens in " An 
Account of the present State of Delhi, by Lieut. 
W. Franklin." — Asiat. Research, vol. iv. p. 417. 

Page 28, line 26. 
Lake of Pearl. 
"In the neighbourhood is Notte Gill, or the Lake 
of Pearl, which receives this name from its pellucid 
water." — Pennant's Hindostan. 

" Nasir Jung, encamped in the vicinity of the Lake 
of Tonoor, amused himself with sailing on that cleai 
and beautiful water, and gave it the fanciful name of 



LALLA ROOKH. 



87 



Motee Talab, ■ the Lake of Pearls,' which it still re- 
tains." — Wilke's South of India. 

Page 28, line 30. 
Described by one from ihe Isles of the West, etc. 
Sir Thomas Roe, Ambassador from James I. to 
Jehanguire. 

Page 28, line 45. 

Loves of Wamak and Ezra. 

" The romance Wemakweazra, written in Persian 

verse, which contains the loves of Wamak and Ezra, 

two celebrated lovers who lived before the time of 

Mahomet." — Notes on die Oriental Tales. 

Page 28, line 45. 
Of the fair-haired Zal, and his mistress Eodahver. 
Their amour is recounted in the Shah-Nameh of 
Ferdousi ; and there is much beauty in the passage 
which describes the slaves of Rodahver, sitting on 
the bank of the river, and throwing flowers into the 
stream, in order to draw the attention of the young 
Hero, who is encamped on the opposite side. — See 
Champion's Translation. 

Page 28, line 46. 

The combat of Kustam with the terrible white Demon. 

Rustam is the Hercules of the Persians. For the 
particulars of his Victory over the Sepeed Deeve, or 
White Demon, see Oriental Collections, vol. ii. p. 45. — 
Near the city of Shirauz is an immense quadrangular 
monument in commemoration of this combat, called 
the Kelaat-i-Deev Sepeed, or Castle of the White 
Giant, which Father Angelo, in his Gazophylacium 
Persicum, p. 127, declares to have been the most 
memorable monument of antiquity which he had 
seen in Persia. — See Ouseley's Persian Miscellanies. 

Page 28, line 53. 

Their golden anklets. 

" The women of the Idol, or dancing girls of the 
Pagoda, have little golden bells fastened to their feet, 
the soft harmonious tinkling of which vibrates in 
unison with the exquisite melody of their voices." — 
Maurice's Indian Antiquities. 

" The Arabian courtezans, like the Indian women, 
have little golden bells fastened round their legs, 
neck and elbows, to the sound of which they dance 
before the King. The Arabian princesses wear 
golden rings on their fingers, to which little bells 
are suspended, as in the flowing tresses of their 
hair, that their superior rank may be known, and 
they themselves receive, in passing, the homage due 
to them." — See Calmefs Dictionary, art. Bells. 

Page 28, line 68. 
That delicious opium, etc. 
" Abou-Tige, ville de la Thebaide, ou il croit beau 
coup de pavots noir, dont se fait le mdleur opium " — 
V Herbelot. 

Page 28, line 78. 
That idol of women, Crishna. 
" He and the three Ramas are described as youths 
of perfect beauty ; and the Princesses of Hindostan 
were all passionately in love with Crishna, who con- 
tinues to thi3 hour the darling god of the Indian 
women." — Sir W. Jones on the Gods of Greece, Italy, 
and India 



Page 28, line 86. 

The shawl-goat of Tibet. 

See Turner's Embassy for a description of this 

animal, " the most beautiful among the whole tribe 

of goats." The materials for the shawls (which is 

carried to Cashmere) is found next the skin. 

Page 28, line 107. 
The veiled Prophet of Khorassan. 
For the real history of this Impostor, whose ori- 
ginal name was Haken ben Haschem, and who was 
called Mokanna from the veil of silver gauze (or, as 
others say, golden) which he always wore, see U 
Herbelot. 

Page 28, line 111. 

Flowerets and fruits blush over every stream. 

" The fruits of Meru are finer than those of any 

other place ; and one cannot see in any other city 

such palaces, with groves, and streams, and gardens." 

Ebn HaukaVs Geography. 

Page 28, line 120. 
For, far less luminous, his votaries said, 
Were e'en the gleams, miraculously shed 
O'er Moussa's cheek. 
" Ses disciples assuraient qu'il se couvrait le vis- 
age, pour ne pas eblouir ceux qui l'approchaient par 
Feclat de son visage comme Moyse." — U Herbelot 

Page 29, line 7. 
In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night. 
" II faut remarquer ici touchant les habits blancs 
des disciples de Hakem, que la couleur des habits, 
des coiffures et des etendards des Khalifes Abassides 
etant la noire, ce chef de rebelles ne pouvait pas en 
choisir une qui lui fut plus opposee." — D' Herbelot. 

Page 29, line 10. 
Javelins of the light Kathaian reed. 
" Our dark javelins, exquisitely wrought of Katha- 
ian reeds, slender and delicate." — Poem of Amru. 

Page 29, line 12. 
Filled with the stems that bloom on Iran's rivers. 
The Persians call this plant Gaz. The celebrated 
shaft of Isfendiar, one of their ancient heroes, was 
made of it. — " Nothing can be more beautiful than 
the appearance of this plant in flower during the 
rains on the banks of the rivers, where it is usually 
interwoven with a lovely twining asclepias." — Sit 
W. Jones, Botanical Observations on select Indian 
Plants. 

Page 29, line 17. 

Like a chenar-tree grove. 

The oriental plane. " The chenar is a delightful 

tree ; its bole is of a fine white and smooth bark ; 

and its foliage, which grows in a tuft at the summit, 

is of a bright green." — Morier's Travels. 

Page 29, line 47 
With turban'd heads, of every hue and race, 
Bowing before that veil'd and awfu fice, 

Like tulip beds 

" The name of Tulip is said to be of Turkish ex- 
traction, and given to the flower on account of its 
resembling a turban."— •Beckmans History of Inven- 
tions. 



68 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Page 29, line 57. 
With belt of broidcr'd crape, 
And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape. 
" The inhabitants of Bucharia wear a round cloth 
bonnet, shaped much after the Polish fashion, having 
a large fur border. They tie their kaftans about the 
middle with a girdle of a kind of silk crape, several 
times round the body." — Account of Independent 
Tartary, in Pinkerton's Collection. 

Page 29, line 108. 
Wav'd, like the wings of the white birds that fan 
The flying Throne of star-taught Soliman. 
This wonderful Throne was called, The Star of 
the Genii. For a full description of it, see the Frag- 
ment, translated by captain Franklin, from a Persian 
MS. entitled " The History of Jerusalem :" Oriental 
Collections, vol. i. p. 235. — When Solomon travelled, 
the eastern writers say, " he had a carpet of green 
silk on which his throne was placed, being of a pro- 
digious length and breadth, and sufficient for all his 
forces to stand upon, the men placing themselves on 
his right hand, and the spirits on his left ; and that, 
when all were in order, phe wind, at his command, 
took up the carpet, and transported it, with all that 
were upon it, wherever he pleased ; the army of 
birds at the same time flying over their heads, and 
forming a kind of canopy to shade them from the 
Bun." — Sale's Koran, vol. ii. p. 214. note. 

Page 30, line 7. 
And thence descending flow'd 
Through many a Prophet's breast. 
This is according to D'Herbelot's account of the 
doctrines of Mokanna : — "Sa doctrine etait que Dieu 
avait pris une forme et figure humaine depuis qu'il eut 
commande aux Anges d'adorer Adam, le premier des 
hommes. Qu'apres la mort d'Adam, Dieu etait ap- 
paru sous la figure de plusieurs Prophetes et autres 
grands hornmes qu'il avait choisis, jusqu'a ce qu'il 
prit celle d'Abu Moslem, Prince de Khorassan, lequel 
professait l'erreur de la Tenassukhiah ou Metempsy- 
chose ; et qu'apres la mort de ce Prince, la Divinite 
etait passee, et descendue en sa personne." 

Page 33, line 5. 
Such Gods as he, 
Whom India serves, the monkey Deity. 
" Apes are in many parts of India highly venerated, 
out of respect to the God Hannaman, a deity par- 
taking of the form of that race." — Pennant's Hin- 
doostan. 

See a curious account in Stephen's Persia of a 
solemn embassy from some part of the Indies to Goa, 
when the Portuguese were there, offering vast trea- 
sures for the recovery of a monkey's tooth, which 
they held in great veneration, and which had been 
taken away upon the conquest of the kingdom of 
Jafanapatan. 

Page 33, line 7. 

Proud things of clay, 

To whom iT Lucifer, asgrandams say, 
Refus'u, though at the forfeit of Heaven's light, 
To bend in worship, Lucifer was right. 
This resolution of Eblis not to acknowledge the 
new creature, man, was according to Mahometan 



tradition, thus adopted : — " The earth (which God had 
selected for the materials of his work) was carried 
into Arabia, to a place between Mecca and Tayef, 
where, being first kneaded by the Angels, it was 
afterwards fashioned by God himself into a human 
form, and left to dry for the space of forty days, or, 
as others say, as many years ; the angels, in the mean 
time, often visiting it, and Eblis (then one of the 
angels nearest to God's presence, afterwards the 
devil) among the rest; but he, not contented with 
looking at it, kicked it with his foot tiil it rung; and 
knowing God designed that creature to be his supe- 
rior, took a secret resolution never to acknowledge 
him as such.'' — Sale on the Koran. 

Page 33, line 44. 
Where none but priests are privileged to trade 
In that best marble of which Gods are made. 
The material of which images of Gaudma (the 
Birman Deity) is made, is held sacred. " Birmans 
may not purchase the marble in mass but are suffer- 
ed, and indeed encouraged, to buy figures of the Deity 
already made." — Symes's Ava, vol. ii. p. 376. 

Page 34, line 93. 

The puny bird that dares, with teazing hum, 

Within the crocodile's stretch'd jaws to come. 

The humming-bird is said to run this risk for the 

purpose of picking the crocodile's teeth. The same 

circumstance is related of the Lapwing, as a fact, to 

which he was witness, by Paul Lucas, — Voyage fait 

en 1714. 

Page 35, line 38. 
Some artists of Yamtcheou having been sent on previously. 
" The Feast of Lanterns is celebrated at Yampt- 
cheou with more magnificence than any where else: 
and the report goes, that the illuminations there are 
so splendid, that an Emperor once, not daring openly 
to leave his Court to go thither, committed himself 
with the Queen and several Princesses of his family 
into the hands of a magician, who promised to trans- 
port them thither in a thrice. He made them in the 
night to ascend magnificent thrones that were borne 
up by swans, which in a moment arrived at Yamt- 
cheou. The Emperor saw at his leisure all the so- 
lemnity, being carried upon a cloud that hovered over 
the city, and descended by degrees ; and came back 
again with the same speed and equipage, nobody at 
court perceiving his absence." — The present Stale oj 
China, p. 156. 

Page 35, line 41. 

Artificial sceneries of bamboo-work. 

See a description of the nuptials of Vizier Alee in 
the Asiatic Annual Register of 1804. 

Page 35, line 59. 
The origin of these fantastic Chinese illuminations. 
" The vulgar ascribe it to an accident that hapj>en- 
ed in the family of a famous mandarin, whose daugh- 
ter walking one evening upon the shore of a lake, fell 
in and was drowned; this afflicted father, with his 
family, ran thither, and, the better to find her, he 
caused a great company of lanterns to be lighted. 
All the inhabitants of the place thronged after him 
with torches. The year ensuing they made fires upon 



LALLA ROOKH. 



39 



the snores the same day ; they continued the cere- 
mony every year, every one lighted his lantern, and 
by degrees it commenced into a custom." — Present 
State of China. 

Page 35, line 100. 
The Kohol's jetty dye. 
"None of these ladies," says Shaw, "take them- 
selves to be completely dressed, till they have tinged 
the hair and edges of their eyelids with the powder 
of lead-ore. Now, as this operation is performed by 
dipping first into the powder a small wooden bodkin 
of the thickness of a quill, and then drawing it after- 
wards, through the eyelids over the ball of the eye, 
we shall have a lively image of what the prophet 
fJer. iv. 30,) may be supposed to mean by rendering 
the eyes with painting. This practice is, no doubt, of 
great antiquity ; for besides the instance already taken 
notice of, we find that where Jezebel is said (2 Kings. 
ix. 30,) to have painted her face, the original words are, 
she adjusted her eyes with the powder of lead-ore." — 
Shaw's Travels. 



Page 36, fine 53. 



Drop 



About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food. 
Tavernier adds, that while the Birds of Paradise 
lie in this intoxicated state, the emmets come and eat 
off their legs ; and that hence it is they are said to 
have no feet. 

Page 37, line 53. 
As they were captives to the King of Flowers. 
" They deferred it till the King of Flowers should 
ascend his throne of enamelled foliage." — The Ba- 
hardajiush. 

Page 37, line 78. 
But a light golden chain-work round her hair, etc. 
"One of the head-dresses of the Persian women is 
composed of a light golden chain-work, set with 
small pearls, with a thin gold plate pendant, about 
the bigness of a crown-piece, on which is impressed 
an Arabian prayer, and which hangs upon the cheek 
below the ear." — Hanway's Travels. 

Page 37, line 79. 

The Maids of Yezd. 

" Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest 

women in Persia The proverb is, that to live happy, 

a man must have a wife of Yezd, eat the bread of 

Yezdecas, and drink the wine of Shiraz." — Tavernier. 

Page 38, line 54. 
And his floating eyes — oh ! they resemble 
Blue water-lilies. 
" Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-lilies, 
agitated by the breeze." — Jayadeva. 

Page 38, line 87. 
To muse upon the pictures that hung round. 
It has been generally supposed that the Mahome- 
tans prohibit all pictures of animals ; but Torderini 
shows that, though the practice is forbidden by the 
Koran, they are not more averse to painted figures 
and images than other people. From Mr. Murphy's 
work, too, we find that the Arabs of Spain had no 
objection to the introduction of figures into painting. 
M 



Page 38, line 97. 
Like her own radiant planet of the west, 
Whose orb when half retir'd looks loveliest. 
This is not quite astronomically true. " Dr. Had- 
ley (says Keil) has shown that Venus is brightest, 
when she is about forty degrees removed from the 
sun ; and that then but only a fourth part of her lucid 
disk is to be seen from the earth." 

Page 38, fine 101. 

With her from Saba's bowers, in whose bright eyes 

He read, that to be bless'd, is to be wise. 

" In the palace which Solomon ordered to be built 

against the arrival of the Queen of Saba, the floor or 

pavement was of transparent glass, laid over running 

water in which fish were swimming." This led the 

Queen into a very natural mistake, which the Koran 

has not thought beneath its dignity to commemorate. 

" It was said unto her, Enter the palace. And when 

she saw it she imagined it to be a great water ; and 

she discovered her legs, by lifting up her robe to pass 

through it. Whereupon Solomon said to her, Verily, 

this is the place evenly floored with glass." — Chap. 27 

Page 38, line 103. 
Zuleika. 
"Such was the name of Potiphar's wife according 
to the sura, or chapter of the Alcoran, which con- 
tains the history of Joseph, and which for elegance 
of style surpasses every other of the Prophet's books ; 
some Arabian writers also call her Rail. The passion 
which this frail beauty of antiquity conceived for her 
young Hebrew slave has given rise to a much esteem- 
ed poem in the Persian language, entitled Yusef vau 
Zelikha, by Noureddin Jami; the manuscript copy 
of which, in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, is sup- 
posed to be the finest in the whole world." — Note 
upon Notfs Translation of Hafez. 

Page 41, fine 22. 
The apples of Lstkahar. 
" In the territory of lstkahar, there is a kind of ap- 
ple, half of which is sweet and half sour." — Ebn 
Haukal. 

Page 41, line 25. 
They saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank. 
For an account of this ceremony, see Gra?idpre'$ 
Voyage in the Indian Ocean. 

Page 41, line 38. 
The Oton-tala or Sea of Stars. 
" The place where the Whangho, a river of Tibet, 
rises, and where there are more than a hundred 
springs, which sparkle like stars ; whence it is called 
Hotunior, that is, the Sea of Stars." — Description of 
Tibet in Pinkerton. 

Page 41, line 67. 
This City of War, which in a few short hnura 
Has sprung up here. 
" The Lescar, or Imperial Camp, is divided, like a 
regular town, into squares, alleys, and streets, and 
from a rising ground furnishes one of the most agree- 
able prospects in the world. Starting up in a few 
j hours in an uninhabited plain, it raises the idea of a 
city built by enchantment. Even those who leave 



90 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



• their houses in cities to follow the prince in his pro- 
gress, are frequently so charmed with the Lescar, 
when situated in a beautiful and convenient place, 
that they cannot prevail with themselves to remove. 
To prevent this inconvenience to the court, the Em- 
peror, after sufficient time is allowed to the trades- 
men to follow, orders them to be burnt out of their 
tents." — Doiv's Hindostan. 

Colonel Wilks gives a lively picture of an Eastern 
encampment. — " His camp, like that of most Indian 
armies, exhibited a motley collection of covers from 
the scorching sun and dews of the night, variegated 
according to the taste or means of each individual, by 
extensive inclosures of coloured calico surrounding 
superb suits of tents ; by ragged cloths or blankets 
stretched over sticks or branches ; palm leaves hastily 
spread over similar supports; handsome tents and 
splendid canopies ; horses, oxen, elephants, and ca- 
mels, all intermixed without any exterior mark of or- 
der or design, except the flags of the chiefs, which 
usually mark the centres of a congeries of these 
masses ; the only regular part of the encampment 
being the streets of shops, each of which is construct- 
ed nearly in the manner of a booth at an English 
fair." — Historical Sketches of the South of India. 

Page 41, line 77. 
And camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells. 
" A superb camel, ornamented with strings, and 
tufts of small shells." — Ali Bey. 

Page 41, line 85. 
The tinkling throngs 
Of laden camels, and their drivers' songs. 
" Some of the camels have bells about their necks, 
and seme about their legs, like those which our car- 
riers put about their fore-horses' necks, which, to- 
gether with the servants (who belong to the camels, 
and travel on foot,) singing all night, make a pleasant 
noise, and the journey passes away delightfully." — 
Pitt's Account of the Mahometans. 

" The camel-driver follows the camels singing, and 
sometimes playing upon his pipe : the louder he sings 
and pipes, the faster the camels go. Nay, they will 
Btand still when he gives over his music." — Tavernier. 

Page 42, line 63. 

Hot as that crimson haze 
By which the prostrate caravan is aw'd. 
Samry says of the south wind, which blows in 
Egypt, from February to May, " Sometimes it appears 
only in the shape of an impetuous whirlwind, which 
passes rapidly, and is fatal to the traveller surprised 
in the middle of the deserts. Torrents of burning 
sand roll before it, the firmament is enveloped in a 
thick veil, and the sun appears of the colour of blood. 
Sometimes whole caravans are buried in it." 

Page 44, line 31. 
—The pillar'd Throne 
OfParviz. 
"There were said to be under this Throne or Palace 
of Khosrou Parvis, a hundred vaults filled with trea- 
sures so immense, that some Mahometan writers tell 
ns, their Prophet, to encourage his disciples, carried 
them to a rock, wliich at his command opened, and 



gave them a prospect through it of the treasures of 
Khosrou." — Universal History. 

Page 44, line 46. 
And they beheld an orb, ample and bright, 
Rise from the Holy Well. 

We are not told more of this trick of the Impostor, 
than that it was " une machine, qu'il disait etre la 
Lune." According to Richardson, the miracle is per- 
petuated in Nekscheb. — " Nakshab, the name of a city 
in Transoxiania, where they say there is a well, in 
which the appearance of the moon is to be seen night 
and day." 

Page 44, line 73. 
On for the lamps that light yon lofty screen. 

The tents of Princes were generally illuminated. 
Norden tells us that the tents of the Bey of Girge was 
distinguished from the other tents by forty lanterns 
being suspended before it. — See Harmer's Observa 
tions on Job. 

Page 45, line 51. 
Engines of havoc in, unknown before. 

That they knew the secret of the Greek fire among 
the Mussulmans early in the eleventh century, ap- 
pears from Dow's Account of Mamood I. " When he 
arrived at Moultan, finding that the country of the 
Jits was defended by great rivers, he ordered fifteen 
hundred boats to be built, each of which he armed 
with six iron spikes, projecting from their prows and 
sides, to prevent their being boarded by the enemy, 
who were very expert in that kind of war. When he 
had launched this fleet, he ordered twenty archers 
into each boat, and five others with fire-balls, to burn 
the craft of the Jits, and naptha to set the whole river 
on fire." 

The agnee aster, too, in Indian poems, the Instru- 
ment of Fire, whose flames cannot be extinguished, 
is supposed to signify the Greek Fire. — See Wilks's 
South of India, vol. i. p. 471. — And in the curious Ja- 
van poem, the Brata Yudha, given by Mr. Rafflts in 
his History of Java, we find, " He aimed at the heart 
of Soeta with the sharp-pointed Weapon of Fire." 

The mention of gunpowder as in use among the 
Arabians, long before us supposed discovery in Eu- 
rope, is introduced by Ebn Fadhl, the Egyptian geo- 
grapher, who lived in the thirteenth century. " Bo- 
dies," he says, "in the form of scorpions, bound 
round and filled with nitrous powder, glide along, 
making a gentle noise ; then, exploding, they lighten, 
as it were, and burn. But there are others, which, 
cast into the air, stretch along like a cloud, roaring 
horribly, as thunder roars, and on all sides vomiting 
out flames, burst, burn, and reduce to cinders what- 
ever comes in their way." The historian Ben Abdalta, 
in speaking of the siege of Abulualid in the year of 
the Hegira 712, says, " A fiery globe, by means of 
combustible matter, with a mighty noise suddenly 
emitted, strikes with the force of lightning, and shakes 
the citadel." — See the extracts from Casiri's Biblioth. 
Arab. Hispan. in the Appendix to Beiington's Literary 
History of the Middle Ages. 

Page 45, Une 55. 
Discharge, as from a kindled naptha fount. 
See Hanway's Account of the Springs of Naptha 
at Baku (which is called by Lieutenant Pottinge* 



LALLA ROOKII. 



Joala Mookhee, or the Flaming; mouth,) taking fire 
and running into the sea. Dr. Cooke in his Journal 
mentions some wells in Circassia, strongly impregna- 
teo with this inflammable oil, from which issues boil- 
ing water, " Though the weather," he adds, " was 
now very cold, the warmth of these wells of hot wa- 
ter produced near them the verdure and flowers of 
spring." 

Major Scott Waring says, that naptha is used by 
*he Persians, as we are told it was in hell, for lamps. 
Many a row 
Of stary lamp3 and blazing cressets, fed 
With naptha and asphaltus, yielded light 
As from a sky. 

Page 46, line 107. 

Thou seest yon cistern in the shade — 'tis fill'd 

With burning drugs, for this last hour distuTd. 

" II donna du poison dans le vin a tous ses gens, et 

Be jetta lui-meme ensuita dans une cuve pleine de 

drogues brulantes et consumantes, afin qu'il ne restat 

rien de tous les membres de son corps, et que ceux 

qui restaient de sa secte puissent croire qu'il etait 

monte au ciel, ce qui ne manqua pas d'arriver." — 

D'Herbelot. 

Page 48, line 28. 
To eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of course, 
impossible. 
" The celebrity of Mazagong is owing to its man- 
goes, which are certainly the best fruit I ever tasted. 
The parent tree, from which all those of this species 
have been grafted, is honoured during the fruit sea- 
son by a guard of sepois ; and, in the reign of Shah 
Jehan, couriers were stationed between Delhi and the 
Mahratta coast, to secure an abundant and fresh sup- 
ply of mangoes for the royal table." — Mrs. Graham's 
Journal of a Residence in India. 

Page 40, line 30. 
His fine antique porcelain. 
This old porcelain is found in digging, and " if it is 
esteemed, it is not because it has acquired any new 
degree of beauty in the earth, but because it has re- 
tained its ancient beauty ; and this alone is of great 
importance in China, where they give large sums for 
the smallest vessels which were used under the Em- 
perors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before 
the dynasty of Tang, at which time porcelain began 
to be used by the Emperors," (about the year 442.) — 
Dunn's Collection of Curious Observations, etc. — a 
bad translation of some parts of the Lettres Edifia?ites 
ei Curieuses of the Missionary Jesuits. 

Page 49, line 36. 
That sublime bird, which flies always in the air. 
The Humma, a bird peculiar to the East. It is 
supposed to fly constantly in the air, and never touch 
the ground : it is looked upon as a bird of happy 
nmen, and that every head it overshades will in time 
wear a crown." — Richardson. 

In the terms of alliance made by Fuzzel Oola Khan 
with Hyderin 1760, one of the stipulations was, "that 
be should have the distinction of two honorary atten- 
dants standing behind him, holdings fans composed 
of the feathers of the humma, according to the prac- 
tice of his family." — Wilks's South of India. He 
adds in a note : " The Humma is a fabulous bird. The 



head over which its shadow once passes will assur- 
edly be circled with a crown. The splendid little 
bird, suspended over the throne of Tippoo Sultaun 
found at Seringapatam in 1799, was intended to re- 
present this poetical fancy." 

Page 49, line 36. 

Whose words, like those on the Written Mountain, last 
for ever. 

" To the pilgrims to Mount Sinai we must attribute 
the inscriptions, figures, etc. on those rocks, which 
have from thence acquired the name of the Written 
Mountain." — Volney. M. Gebelin and others have 
been at much pains to attach some mysterious and 
important meaning to these inscriptions ; but Niebuhr, 
as well as Volney, thinks that they must have been 
executed at idle hours by the travellers to Mount Si- 
nai, " who were satisfied with cutting the unpolished 
rock with any pointed instrument; adding to their 
names and the date of their journeys some rude 
figures which bespeak the hand of a people but little 
skilled in the arts." — Niebuhr. 

Page 49, line 70. 
From the dark hyacinth to which Hafez compares his 

mistress's hair. 
Vide Notfs Hafez, Ode v. 

Page 49, fine 71. 
To the Camalata by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of 

India is scented. 
" The Camalata (called by Linnaeus, Ipomaea) is the 
most beautiful of its order, both in the colour and 
form of its leaves and flowers ; its elegant blossoms 
are 'celestial rosy red, Love's proper hue,' and have 
justly procured it the name of Camalata, or Love's 
Creeper." — Sir W. Jones. 

" Camalata may also mean a mythological plant, by 
which all desires are granted to such as inhabit the 
heaven of India ; and if ever flower was worthy of 
paradise, it is our charming Ipomaea." — lb. 

Page 49, line 73. 

That Flower-loving Nymph, whom they worship in the 
temples of Kathay. 

" According to Father Premare, in his tract on Chi 
nese Mythology, the mother of Fo-hi was the daugh- 
ter of heaven, surnamed Flower-loving ; and as the 
nymph was walking alone on the bank of a river, she 
found herself encircled by a rainbow, after which she 
became pregnant, and, at the end of twelve years, was 
delivered of a son, radiant as herself." — Asiat. Res. 

Page 50, line 1. 
On the blue flower, which, Bramins say, 
Blooms no where but in Paradise. 
" The Brahmins of this province insist that the blue 
Campac flowers only in Paradise." — Sir W. Jones. 
It appears, however, from a Curious letter of the Sul- 
tan of Menangcabow, given by Marsden, that one 
place on earth may lay claim to the possession of it. 
" This is the Sultan, who keeps the flower Champaka 
that is blue, and to be found in no other country but 
his, being yellow elsewhere." — Marsden' s Sumatra. 

Pago 50, line 26. 
I know where the Isles of Perfume are. 
Diodorus mentions the Isle of Panchaia, to the 
south of Arabia Felix, where there was a temple of 



32 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Jupiter. This island, or rather cluster of isles, has 
disappeared, "sunk (says Grandpre) in the abyss 
made by the fire beneath their foundations." — Voyage 
to the Indian Ocean. 

Page 50, line 39. 
Whose air is b;iim, whose ocean spreads 
O'er coral rocks and amber beds, etc. 
" It is not like the Sea of India, whose bottom is 
rich with pearls and ambergris, whose mountains of 
rhe coast are stored with gold and precious stones, 
whose gulfs breed creatures that yield ivory, and 
among the plants of whose shores are ebony, red 
wood, and the wood of Hairzan, aloes, camphor, 
cloves, sandal-wood, and all other spices and aroma- 
tics ; where parrots and peacocks are birds of the 
forest, and musk and civet are collected upon the 
lands." — Travels of two Mohammedans. 

Page 50, line 54. 

Thy pillar'd shades. 

In the ground 

The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow 
About the mother tree, a pillar'd shade, 
High over-arch' d, and echoing walks between. 

Milton. 
For a particular description and plate of the Ban- 
yan-tree, see Cordiner's Ceylon. 

Page 50, line 56. 
Thy Monarchs and their thousand thrones. 
" With this immense treasure Mamood returned to 
Ghizni, and, in the year 400, prepared a magnificent 
festival, where he displayed to the people his wealth 
in golden thrones and in other ornaments, in a great 
plain without the city of Ghizni." — Ferishta. 

Page 50, line 91. 

Blood like this, 
For L'berty shed, so holy is. 
Objections may be made to my use of the word Li- 
berty, in this, and more especially in the story that 
follows it, as totally inapplicable to any state of things 
that has ever existed in the East ; but though I can- 
not, of course, mean to employ it in that enlarged 
and noble sense which is so well understood in the 
present day, and, I grieve to say, so little acted upon, 
yet it is no disparagement to the word to apply it to 
that national independence, that freedom from the 
interference and dictation of foreigners, without 
which, indeed, no liberty of any kind can exist, and 
for which both Hindoos and Persians fought against 
their Mussulman invaders with, in many cases, a 
bravery that deserved much better success. 

Page 50, line 108. 
Afric's Lunar Mountains. 
" Sometimes called," says Jackson, " Jibbel Kum- 
rie, or the white or lunar-coloured mountains ; so a 
white horse is called by the Arabians a moon-colour- 
ed horse." 

Page 51, line 56. 
Only the fierce hyaena stalks 
Throughout the city's desolate walks. 
u Gondar was full of hyaenas, from the time it 
turned dark till the dawn of day, seeking the different 



pieces of slaughtered carcases, which this cruel and 
unclean people expose in the streets without burial, 
and who f rmly believe that these animals are Falash- 
ta from the neighbouring mountains, transformed by 
magic, and come down to eat human flesh in the dark 
in safety." — Bruce. 

Page 51, line 104 
But see, — who yonder comes. 
This circumstance has been often introduced into 
poetry; — by Vincentius Fabricius, by Darwin, and 
lately, with very powerful effect, by Mr. Wilson. 

Page 53, line 13. 

The wild bees of Palestine. 

" Wild bees, frequent in Palestine, in hollow trunks 

or branches of trees, and the clefts of rocks. Thus 

it is said (Psalm 81,) " honey out of the stony rock." — 

Burder's Oriental Customs. 

Page 53, line 15. 
And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, 
And woods so full of nightingales. 
" The river Jordan is on both sides beset with little, 
thick, and pleasant woods, among which thousands 
of nightingales warble all together." — Thevenot. 

Page 53, line 50. 

On the brink 
Of a small imaret's rustic fount. 
Imaret, " hospice ou on loge et nourrit, gratis, les 
pelerins pendant trois jours." — Toderini, translated 
by the Abbede Cournand. — See also Castellan's Mozurs 
des Othomans, torn. v. p. 145. 

Page 53, line 81. 

The boy has started from the bed 

Of flowers, where he had lain his head, 

And down upon the fragrant sod 

Kneels. 
" Such Turks as at the common hours of prayer are 
on the road, or so employed as not to find conve- 
nience to attend the Mosques, are still obliged to 
execute that duty ; nor are they ever known to fail, 
whatever business they are then about, but pray im- 
mediately when the hour alarms them, whatever they 
are about, in that very place they chance to stand ou ; 
insomuch that when a janissary, whom you have to 
guard you up and down the city, hears the notice 
which is given him, from the steeples, he will turn 
about, stand still, and beckon with his hand, to tell 
his charge he must have patience for a while ; when, 
taking out his handkerchief, he spreads it on the 
ground, sits cross-legged thereupon, and says his 
prayers, though in the open market, which, having 
ended, he leaps briskly up, salutes the person whom 
he undertook to convey, and renews his journey with 
the mild expression of ghell ghonnum ghell, or, Come, 
dear, follow me." — Aaron HuTs Travels. 

Page 54, line 92. 
The Banyan Hospital. 
This account excited a desire of visiting the Ran- 
yan Hospital, as I had heard much of their benevo- 
lence to all kinds of animals that were either sick, 
lame, or infirm, through age or accident. On my 



LALLA ROOKH. 



93 



arrival there were presented to my view many horses, 
cows, and oxen, in one apartment ; in another, dogs, 
sheep, goats, and monkeys, with clean straw for them 
to repose on. Above stairs were depositories for 
seeds of many sorts, and flat, broad dishes for water, 
for the use of birds and insects." — Parsons. 

It is said that all animals know the Banyans, that 
the most timid approach them, and that birds will fly 
nearer to them than to other people. — See Grandpre* 

Page 54, line 97. 
Whose sweetness was not to be drawn forth, like that of 

the fragrant grass near the Ganges, by crushing and 

trampling upon them. 

" A very fragrant grass from the banks of the Gan- 
ges, near Heriuwar, which in some places covers 
whole acres, and diffuses, when crushed, a strong 
odour." — Sir W. Jones on the Spikenard of the An- 
cients. 

Page 55, line 62. 
Artizans in chariots. 
Oriental Tales. 

Page 55, line 72. 
Waved plates of gold and silver flowers over their heads. 
" Or, rather," says Scott, upon the passage of 
Fe^shta, from which this is taken, "small coin, 
stamped with the figure of a flower. They are still 
used in India to distribute in charity, and on occasion, 
thrown by the purse-bearers of the great among the 
populace." 

Page 55, line 83. 
His delectable alley of trees. 
This road is 250 leagues in length. It has " little 
pyramids or turrets," says Bernier, "erected every 
half league, to mark the ways, and frequent wells to 
afford drink to passengers, and to water the young 
trees." 

Page 56, line 8. 
On the clear, cold waters of which floated multitudes of the 
beautiful red lotus. 
" Here is a large pagoda by a tank, on the water 
of which float multitudes of the beautiful red lotus : 
the flower is larger than that of the white water-lily, 
and is the most lovely of the nymphseas I have seen." 
— Mrs. Graham's Journal of a residence in India. 

Page 56, line 38. 
Who many hundred years since had fled hither from their 

Arab conquerors. 
** On les voit, persecutes par les Khalifes, se reti- 
rer dans les montagnes du Kerman : plusieurs choisi- 
rent pour retraite la Tartarie et la Chine; d'autres 
s'arreterent sui les bords du Gauge, a Test de Delhi." 
— M. Anuuetil, Memoires de VAcademie, torn. xxxi. p. 
346. 

Page 56, line 48. 

As a native of Cashmere, which had in the same manner 

become the prey of strangers. 

" Cashmere (says its historians) had its own Princes 
4000 years before its conquest by Akbar in 1585. 
Akbar would have found some difficulty to reduce 
his Paradise of the Indies, situated as it is, within 
such a fortress of mountains , but its monarch, Yusef 



Kahn, was basely betrayed by his Omrahs.'" — Pen- 
nant. 

Page 56, line 79. 
His story of the Fire-worshippers. 
Voltaire tells us, that in his Tragedy "Les Gue- 
bres," he was generally supposed to have alluded to 
the Jansenists ; and I should not be surprised if this 
story of the Fire-worshippers were found capable of 
a similar doubleness of application. 

Page 57, line 77. 
Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bovrer. 
"In the midst of the garden is the chiosk, that is, 
a large room, commonly beautified with a fine foun- 
tain in the midst of it. It is raised nine or ten steps, 
and enclosed with gilded lattices, round which vines, 
jessamines, and honeysuckles make a sort of green 
wall ; large trees are planted round this place, which 
is the scene of their greatest pleasures." — Lady M. 
W. Montague. 

Page 57, line 78. 
Before their mirrors count the time. 
The women of the east are never without their 
looking-glasses. "In Barbary," says Shaiv, "they 
are so fond of their looking glasses, which they hang 
upon their breasts, that they will not lay them aside, 
even when, after the drudgery of the day, they are 
obliged to go two or three miles with a pitcher or a 
goat's skin to fetch water." — Travels. 

In other parts of Asia they wear little looking- 
glasses on their thumbs. "Hence (and from the lo- 
tus being considered the emblem of beauty) is the 
meaning of the following mute intercourse of two 
lovers before their parents. 

" He, with salute of deference due, 

A lotus to his forehead prest ; 
She rais'd her mirror to his view, 
Then turn'd it inward to her breast." 

Asiatic Miscellany, vol. ii. 

Page 58, line 17. 
Th' untrodden solitude 
Of Ararat's tremendous peak. 
Struy says, " I can well assure the reader that their 
opinion is not true, who suppose this mount to be 
inaccessible." He adds, that "the lower part of the 
mountain is cloudy, misty, and dark, the middlemost 
part very cold and like clouds of snow, but the upper 
regions perfectly calm." — It was on this mountain 
that the Ark was supposed to have rested after the 
Deluge, and part of it, they say, exists there still, 
which Struy thus gravely accounts for :— " Whereas 
none can remember that the air on the top of the hill 
did ever change or was subject either to wind or rain, 
which is presumed to be the reason that the Ark has 
endured so long without being rotten." — See Carre- 
n's Travels, where the Doctor laughs at this whole ac- 
count of Mount Ararat. 

Page 59, line 85. 

The Gheber belt that round him clung. 

"Pour se distinguer des Idolatres de l'lnde, lea 

Guebres se ceignent tous d'un cordon de laine, ou de 

poil de chameau." — Encyclopedic Francaise 

D'H^rbelot says this belt was generally of leather 



H 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Page 59, line 89. 
Who, mora and even 
Hail their Creator's dwelling-place 
Among the living lights of Heaven. 
•'As to fire, the Ghebers place the spring head of it 
in that globe of fire, the Sun, by them called Mithras, 
or Mihir, to which they pay the highest reverence, in 
gratitude for the manifold benefits flowing from its 
ministerial omniscience. But they are so far from 
confounding the subordination of the Servant with 
the majesty of its Creator, that they not only attribute 
no sort of sense or reasoning to the sun or fire, in any 
of its operations, but consider it as a purely passive 
blind instrument, directed and governed by the im- 
mediate impression on it of the will of God ; but they 
do not even give that luminary, all glorious as it is, 
more than the second rank amongst his works, re- 
serving the first for that stupendous production of 
divine power, the mind of man." — Grose. The false 
charges brought against the religion of these people 
by their Mussulman tyrants is but one proof among 
many of the truth of this writer's remark, " that ca- 
lumny is often added to oppression, if but for the 
eake of justifying it. ' 

Page 60, line 72. - 
That enchanted tree which grows over the tomb of the mu- 
sician Tan-Sein. 
" Within the enclosure which surrounds this mo- 
nument (at Gualior) is a small tomb to the memory 
of Tan-Sein, a musician of incomparable skill, who 
flourished at the court of Akbar. The tomb is over- 
shadowed by a tree, concerning which a superstitious 
notion prevails that the chewing of its leaves will 
give an extraordinary melody to the voice." — Narra- 
tive of a journey from Agra to Ouzein, by W. Hun- 
ter, Esq. 

Page 60, line 77. 
The awful signal of the bamboo-staff. 
" It is usual to place a small white triangular flag, 
fixed to a bamboo staff of ten or twelve feet long, at 
the place where a tiger has destroyed a man. It is 
common for the passengers also to throw each a stone 
or brick near the spot, so that in the course of a little 
time a pile equal to a good waggon-load is collected. 
The sight of these flags and piles of stones imparts a 
certain melancholy, not perhaps altogether void of 
apprehension." — Oriental Field Sports, vol. ii. 

Page 60, line 84. 

Beneath the shade, some pious hands had erected, etc. 

" The Ficus Indica is called the Pagod Tree and 
Tree of Councils; the first, from the idols placed un- 
der its shade ; the second, because meetings were held 
under its cool branches. In some places it is believed 
to be the haunt of spectres, as the ancient spreading 
oaks of Wales have been of fairies : in others are 
erected, beneath the shade, pillars of stone, or posts, 
elegantly carved and ornamented with the most beau- 
tiful porcelain to supply the use of mirrors." — Pen- 
nant. 

Page 60, line 108. 
The nightingale now bends her flight. 
"The nightingale sings from the pomegranate 



groves in the day-time, and from the loftiest trees ai 
night." — RusseVs Aleppo. 

Page 61, line 88. 
Before whose sabre s dazzling light, etc. 
" When the bright cimeters make the eyes of out 
heroes wink." — The Moallakat, Poem of Arnru. 

Page 62, line 18. 

As Lebanon's small mountain flood 

Is rendered holy by the ranks 

Of sainted cedars on its banks. 
In the Lettres Edifantes, there is a different cause 
assigned for its name of Holy. " In these are deep 
caverns, which formerly served as so many cells for 
a great number of recluses, who had chosen these re- 
treats as the only witnesses upon earth of the severity 
of their penance. The tears of these pious penitents 
gave the river of which we have just treated the name 
of the Holy River." — See Chateaubriand's B^auiies 
of Christianity. 

Page 62, line 57. 

A rocky mountain o'er the sea 

Of Oman beetling awfully. 
This mountain is my own creation, as the " stu- 
pendous chain" of which I suppose it a link does not 
extend quite so far as the shores of the Persian Gulf 
" This long and lofty range of mountains formerly 
divided Media from Assyria, and now forms the boun 
dary of the Persian and Turkish empires. It runa 
parallel with the river Tigris, and Persian Gulf, and 
almost disappearing in the vicinity of Gombaroon 
(Harmozia) seems once more to rise in the southern 
districts of Kerman, and, following an easterly course 
through the centre of Meckraun and Balouchistan, 
is entirely lost in the deserts of Sinde." — Kinnier'a 
Persian Empire. 

Page 62, line 80. 

That bold were Moslem, who would dare 

At twilight hour to steer his skiff 

Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff. 
" There is an extraordinary hill in this neighbour- 
hood, called Kohe Gubr, or the Guebre's mountain. 
It rises in the form of a lofty cupola, and on the sum- 
mit of it, they say, are the remains of an Atush Kudu, 
or Fire Temple. It is superstitiously held to be the 
residence of Deeves or Sprites, and many marvellous 
stories are recounted of the injury and witchcraft suf- 
fered by those who essayed in former days to ascend 
or explore it." — Pottinger's Beloochistan 

Page 62, line 103. 
Still did the mighty flame burn on. 
" At the city of Yezd in Persia, which is distin- 
guished by the appellation of the Darub Abadut, or 
Seat of Religion, the Guebres are permitted to have 
an Atush Kudu or Fire temple (which, they assert, 
has had the sacred fire in it since the days of Zoro- 
aster) in their own compartment of the city ; but for 
this indulgence they are indebted to the avarice, not 
the tolerance of the Persian government, which taxes 
them at 25 rupees each man." — Pottinger's BeloO' 
chistan. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



9a 



Page 63, line 60. 
While on that altar's fires 
They swore. 
u Nul d'entre eux n'oserait se parjurer, quand il a 
pris a temoin cet element terrible et vengeur." — En- 
cyclopedic Francois. 

Page 63, line 78. 

The Persian lily shines and towers. 

" A vivid verdure succeeds the autumnal rains, and 

the ploughed fields are covered with the Persian lily, 

of a resplendent yellow colour." — RusseVs Aleppo. 

Page 65, line 3. 
Like Dead-Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, 
But turn to ashes on the lips. 

"They say that there are apple-trees upon the 
sides of this sea, which bear very lovely fruit, but 
within are all full of ashes.''— Thevenot. The same 
is asserted of the oranges there. — See Witman's Tra- 
vels in Asiatic Turkey. 

" The Asphalt Lake, known by the name of the 
Dead Sea, is very temarkable on account of the con- 
siderable proportion of salt which it contains. In 
this respect it surpasses every other known water on 
the surface of the earth. This great proportion of 
bitter-tasted salts is the reason why neither animal 
nor plant can five in this water." — KlaprotKs Chemi- 
cal Analysis of the Water of the Dead Sea, Annals 
of Philosophy, January, 1813. Hasselquist, however, 
doubts the truth of this last assertion, as there are 
shell-fish to be found in the lake. 

Lord Byron has a similar allusion to the fruits of 
the Dead Sea, in that wonderful display of genius, 
his Third Canto of Childe Harold, — magnificent be- 
vond any thing, perhaps, that even he has ever written. 

Page 65, line 9. 
While lakes that shone in mockery nigh. 

" The Shuhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be 
caused by the rarefaction of the atmosphere from ex- 
treme heat ; and, which augments the delusion, it is 
most frequent in hollows, where water might be ex- 
pected to lodge. I have seen bushes and trees re- 
flected in it, with as much accuracy as though it had 
been the face of a clear and still lake." — Pottinger. 

" As to the unbelievers, their works are like a va- 
pour in a plain, which the thirsty traveller thinketh 
to be water, until when he cometh thereto he findeth 
it to be nothing.'' — Koran, chap. 24. 

Page 65, line 20. 
A flower that the Bidmusk has just passed over. 
" A wind which prevails in February, called Bid- 
musk, from a small and odoriferous flower of that 
name." — " The wind which blows these flowers com- 
monly lasts till the end of the month." — Le Bruyn. 

Page 65, line 22. 

Where the sea-gipseys, who live for ever on the water. 

" The Biajus are of two races ; the one is settled on 
Borneo, and are a rude but warlike and industrious 
nation, who reckon themselves the original possessors 
of the island of Borneo. The other is a species of 
sea-gipsies or itinerant fishermen, who live in small 
covered boats, and enjoy a perpetual summer on the 



eastern ocean, shifting to leeward from island to 
island, with the variations of the monsoon. In somo 
of their customs this singular race resemble the na- 
tives of the Maldivia islands. The Maldivians an- 
nually launch a small bark, loaded with perfumes, 
gums, flowers, and odoriferous wood, and turn it 
adrift at the mercy of winds and waves, as an offering 
to the Spirit of the Winds ; and sometimes similar 
offerings are made to the spirit whom they term the 
King of the Sea. In like manner the Biajus per- 
form their offering to the god of evil, launching a 
small bark, loaded with all the sins and misfortunes 
of the nation, which are imagined to fall on the un- 
happy crew that may be so unlucky as first to meet 
with it. Dr. Leyden on the Languages and Litera- 
ture of the Indo-Chinese Nations. 

Page 65, line 37. 
The violet sherbets. 
" The sweet-scented violet is one of the plants most 
esteemed, particularly for its great use in sorbet, 
which they make of violet sugar." — Hasselquist. 

"The sherbet they most esteem, and which is 
drank by the Grand Signor himself, is made of vio- 
lets and sugar." — Tavernier. 

Page 65, line 39. 

The pathetic measure of Nava. 

" Last of all she took a guitar, and sung a pathetic 

air in the measure called Nava, which is always used 

to express the lamentations of absent lovers." — Per 

sian Tales. 

Page 65, fine 107. 
Her ruby rosary. 
" Le Tespih, qui est un chapelet, compose de 99 
petites boules d'agathe, de jaspe, d'ambre, de corail, 
ou d' autre matiere precieuse. J'en ai vu un superbe 
au Seigneur Jerpos ; il etait de belles et grosses per- 
les parfaites et egales, estime trente mille piastres." 
— Toderini. 

Page 69, line 16. 
A silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree Nilica. 
" Blossoms of the sorrowful Nyctanthes give a 
durable colour to silk." — Remarks on the Husbandry 
of Bengal, p. 200. Nilica is one of the Indian names 
of this flower. — Sir W. Jones. The Persians call it 
Gul. — Carreri. 

Page 71, line 54. 
When pitying heaven to roses turn'd 
The death-flames that beneath him burn'd. 
Of their other Prophet, Zoroaster, there is a story 
told in Dion Prusmus, Orat. 36, that the love of wis* 
dom and virtue leading him to a solitary life upon a 
mountain, he found it one day all in a flame, shining 
with celestial fire, out of which he came without any 
harm, and instituted certain sacrifices to God, who, 
he declared, then appeared to him. — See Patrick on 
Exodus, iii. 2. 

Page 76, line 54. 
They were now not far from that Forbidden River. 
" Akbar, on his way, ordered a fort to be built upon 
the Nilab, which he called Attock, which means, m 
the Indian language, Forbidden ; for, by the supersti- 
tion of the Hindoos, it was held unlawful to cross 
that river." — Dow's Hindostaju 



96 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Page 76, line 77. 

Resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge. 

" The inhabitants of this country (Zinge) are never 
afflicted with sadness or melancholy : on this subject 
the Sheikh Abu-al-Kfieir-Azhari has the following 
distich : 

" Who is the man without care or sorrow (tell) that 
I may rub my hand to him. 

" (Behold) the Zingians, without care or sorrow, 
frolicksome, with tipsiness and mirth." 

" The philosophers have discovered that the cause 
of this cheerfulness proceeds from the influence of 
the star Soheil or Canopus, which rises over them 
every night." — Extract from a geographical Persian 
Manuscrijrt, called Heft Aklin, or the Seven Climates, 
translated by W. Ouseley, Esq. 

Page 76, line 92. 

Putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate lizards. 

"The lizard Stello. The Arabs call it Hardun. 

The Turks kill it, for they imagine that by declining 

the head, it mimics them when they say their prayers." 

Hasselquist. 

Page 76, line 98. 
About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those Royal 
Gardens. 
I am indebted for these particulars of Hussun Ab- 
daul to the very interesting Introduction of Mr. El- 
phinstone's work upon Caubul. 

Page 76, line 107. 
As the Prophet said of Damascus, " It was too delicious." 

" As you enter at the Bazar without the gate of 
Damascus, you see the Green Mosque, so called be- 
cause it hath a steeple faced with green glazed bricks, 
which render it very resplendent ; it is covered at 
top with a pavilion of the same stuff. The Turks 
say this mosque was made in that place, because Ma- 
homet being come so far, would not enter the town, 
6aying it was too delicious." — Thevenot. This re- 
minds one of the following pretty passage in Isaac 
Walton : " When I sat last on this primrose bank, 
and looked down these meadows, I thought of them 
as Charles the Emperor did of the city of Florence, 
4 that they were too pleasant to be looked on, but only 
on holidays.' " 

Page 77, line 9. 
Would remind the Princess of that difference, etc. 

" Haroun Al Raschid, Cinquieme Khalife des Abas- 
sidese, s'etant un jour brouille avec une de ses mai- 
tresses nominee Maridah, qu'il aimait cependant jus- 
qu'a l'exces, et cette mesentelligence ayant deja dure 
quelque temps, commenca a s'ennuyer. Giafar Bar- 
maki, son favori, qui s'en appercut, commanda a Ab- 
bas ben Ahnaf, excellent poete de ce temps-la, de 
composer quelques vers sur le sujet de cette brouil- 
lerie, Ce poete executa l'ordre de Giafar, qui fit chan- 
er ces vers par Moussali, en presence du Khalife, et 
ce Prince fut tellement touche de la tendresse des 
vers du poete et de la douceur de la volx du Musicien 
qu'il alia aussitot trouver Maridah, et fit sa paix avec 
elle"— UHerbelot. 

Page 78, line 6. 

Where the silken swing. 

w The swing is a favourite pastime in the East, as 



promoting a circulation of air, extremely relreshing 
in those sultry climates." — Richardson. 

" The swings are adorned with festoons. This oas 
time is accompanied with music of voices and of in 
struments, hired by the masters of the swings "— 
Thevenot. 

Page 78, line 16. 

as if all the shores, 

Like those of Kathay, utter'd music and gave 
An answer in song to the kiss of each wave. 
This miraculous quality has been attributed also tc 
the shore of Attica. "Hujus littus ait Capella con- 
centum musicum illisis terrae undis reddere, quod 
propter tantam eruditionis vim puto dictum " 
Ludov. Vives in Augustine, de CicituL Dei, lib 
xviii. c. 8. 

Page 80, line 40. 
The basil tuft that waves 
Its fragrant blossoms over graves. 
"The women in Egypt go, at least two days in 
the week, to pray and weep at the sepulchres of the 
dead; and the custom then is to throw upon the 
tombs a sort of herb, which the Arabs call rilian % 
and which is our sweet basil.'' — Maillet, Lett. 10. 

Page 80, line 89. 
The mountain herb that dyes 
The tooth of the fawn like gold. 

Niebuhr thinks this may be the herb which the 
Eastern alchymists look to as a means of making 
gold. " Most of those alchymical enthusiasts think 
themselves sure of success, if they could but find 
out the herb, which gilds the teeth and gives a yellow 
colour to the flesh of the sheep that eat it. Even the 
oil of this plant must be of a golden colour. It is 
called Hascabschat ed aaby 

Father Jerom Dandini, however, asserts that the 
teeth of the goats at Mount Libanus are of a silver 
colour; and adds, "this confirms me in that which I 
observed in Candia; to wit, that the animals that 
live on mount Ida eat a certain herb, which renders 
their teeth of a golden colour; which, according to 
my judgment, cannot otherwise proceed than from 
the mines which are under ground." — Dandini 
Voyage to Mount Libanus. 

Page 81, line 49. 
'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure, 
The past, the present, and future of pleasure. 

" Whenever our pleasure arises from a successioa 
of sounds, it is a perception of complicated nature, 
made up of a sensation of the present sound or note, 
and an idea or remembrance of the foregoing, while 
their mixture and concurrence produce such a myste- 
rious delight, as neither could have produced alone 
And it is often heightened by an anticipation of the 
succeeding notes. Thus Sense, Memory, and Imagi- 
nation are conjunctively employed." — Gerrard os 
Taste. 

This is exactly the Epicurean theory of Pleasure 
as explained by Cicero : — " Quocirca corpus gaudere 
tamdiu, dum prasentem sentiret voluptatem ; ani- 
mum et praBsentem percipere pariter cum corpore et 
prospicere venientem, nee praeteritam praeterfluere 
sinere." 

Madame de Stael accounts upon the same principle 
for the gratification we derive from rhyme • " Elle 



LALLA ROOKH. 



97 



est l'image de l'esperance et du souvenir. Un son 
nous fait desirer celui qui doit lui repondre, et quand 
le second retentit, il nous rapelle celui qui vient de 
nous echapper." 

Page 81, line 69. 
'Tis dawn, at least that earlier dawn, 
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn. 
u The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi 
Kazim and Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real day- 
break. They account for this phenomenon in a most 
whimsical manner. They say that as the sun rises 
from behind the Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus,) it 
passes a hole perforated through that mountain, and 
that darting its rays through it, is the cause of the 
Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of day- 
break. As it ascends, the earth is again veiled in 
darkness, until the sun rises above the mountain and 
brings with it the Soobhi Sadig, or real morning." — 
Scott Waring. He thinks Milton may allude to this, 
when he says, 

Ere the blabbing Eastern scout 
The nice morn on the Indian steep 
From her cabin'd loop-hole peep. 

Page 81, line 98. 

held a feast 

In his magnificent Shalimar. 
" In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the 
Lake, one of the Delhi Emperors, I believe Shah 
Jehan, constructed a spacious garden called the Sha- 
limar, which is abundantly stored with fruit trees and 
flowering shrubs. Some of the rivulets which inter- 
sect the plain are led into a canal at the back of the 
garden, and, flowing through its centre, or occasion- 
ally thrown into a variety of water-works, compose 
the chief beauty of the Shalimar. To decorate this 
spot the Mogul Princes of India have displayed an 
equal magnificence and taste; especially Jehan Gheer, 
who, with the enchanting Noor Mahl, made Kash- 
mire his usual residence during the summer months. 
On arches thrown over the canal are erected, at 
equal distances, four or five suits of apartments, each 
consisting of a saloon, with four rooms at the angles, 
where the followers of the court attend, and the ser- 
vants prepare sherbets, coffee, and the hookah. The 
frame of the doors of the principal saloon is com- 
posed of pieces of a stone of a black colour, streaked 
with yellow lines, and of a closer grain and higher 
polish than porphyry. They were taken, it is said, 
from a Hindoo temple, by one of the Mogul Princes, 
and are esteemed of great value." — Forster. 

Page 83, line 20. 
And oh, if there be, etc. 
" Around the exterior of the Dewan Khass (a build- 
ing of Shah Allum's) in the cornice are the following 
lines in letters of gold upon a ground of white mar- 
ble — l If there be a Paradise upon earth, it is this, it is 
this.' " — Franklin. 

Page 84, line 67. 

Like that painted porcelain. 

" The Chinese had formerly the art of painting on 

the sides of porcelain vessels, fish and other animals, 

which were only perceptible when the vessel was 

full of some liquor. They call this specks Kai-tsin,. 

N 



that is, azure is put in press, on account of the man 
ner in which the azure is laid on." — " They are every 
now and then trying to recover the art of this magical 
painting, but to no purpose."— -Dunn. 

Page 84, line 100. 
More perfect than the divinest images in the House of Azor 
An eminent carver of idols, said in the Koran to be 
father to Abraham. " I have such a lovely idol as ia 
not to be met with in the house of Azor." — Hqfiz. 

Page 84, line 112. 
The grottos, hermitages, and miraculous fountains. 

" The pardonable superstition of the sequestered 
inhabitants has multiplied the places of worship of 
Mahadeo, of Beschan, and of Brama. All Cashmere 
is holy land, and miraculous fountains abound."— 
Major RenneWs Memoirs of a Map of Hindoatan. 

Jehanguire mentions "a fountain in Cashmere 
called Tirnagh, which signifies a snake ; probably 
because some large snake had formerly been seen 
there." — " During the lifetime of my father, I went 
twice to this fountain, which is about twenty coss 
from the city of Cashmere. The vestiges of places 
of worship and sanctity are to be traced without 
number amongst the ruins and the caves, which are 
interspersed in its neighbourhood." — Toozek Jehan- 
geery. — See Asiat. Misc. vol. ii. 

There is another account of Cashmere by Abul 
Fazil, the author of the Ayin-Acbaree, " who," saya 
Major Rennell, " appears to have caught some of the 
enthusiasm of the Valley, by his descriptions of tin 
holy places in it." 

Page 84, line 117. 
Whose houses, roof'd with flowers. 
" On a standing roof of wood is laid a covering 
of fine earth, which shelters the building from the 
great quantity of snow that falls in the winter season. 
This fence communicates an equal warmth in winter, 
as a refreshing coolness in the summer season, when 
the tops of the houses, which are planted with a 
variety of flowers, exhibit at a distance the spacious 
view of a beautifully chequered parterre." — Forster. 

Page 85, line 12. 

Lanterns of the triple-coloured tortoise shell of Pegu. 

"Two hundred slaves there are, who have no other 
office than to hunt the woods and marshes for triple 
coloured tortoises for the King's Viviary. Of the 
shells of these also lanterns are made." — Vincent le 
Blanc's Travels. 

Page 85, line 22. 
The meteors of the north, as they are seen by those hunters 

For a description of the Aurora Borealis, as it 
appears to these hunters, see Encyclopcedia. 

Page 85, line 36. 

The cold, odoriferous wind. 

This wind, which is to blow from Syria Damas 
cena, is, according to the Mahometans, one of the 
signs of the Last Day's approach. 

Another of the signs is, "Great distress in the 
world, so that a man when he passess by another's 
grave, shall say, Would to God I were in his place !** 
— Sale's Preliminary Discourse. 



M 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Page 85, line 97. 

The cerulean throne of Koolburga. 
** On Mahommed Shaw's return to Koolburga (the 
capital of Dekkan) he made a great festival, and 
mounted his throne with much pomp and magnifi- 
cence, calling it Firozeh or Cerulean. I have heard 
some old persons, who saw the throne Firozeh in 
the reign of Sultan Mamood Bhamenee, describe it. 
They say that it was in length nine feet, and three in 
^eadth; made of ebony, covered with plates of pure 



gold, and set with precious stonea of immense value 
Every prince of the house of Bhamenee, who pos- 
sessed this Throne, made a point of adding to it some 
rich stones, so that when, in the reign of Sultan Ma- 
mood, it was taken to pieces, to remove some of the 
jewels to be set in vises and cups, the jewellers valued 
it at one crore of oons, (nearly four millions sterling.) 
I learned also that it was called Firozeh from being 
partly enamelled of a sky-blue colour, which was in 
time totally concealed by the number of jewels "— 
Ferishta. 



EPISTLES, ODES, 



AND OTHER 



ff ©3SSSS 



Tanti non es, ais. Sapis, Luperce. 

Martial, Lib. i. Epig. 118. 
nEPinAETSAI MEN nOAAAS nOAEIZ KAAON, 
ENOIKHSAI AE TH KPATISTH XPHEIMON. 

Plutarch, jrsp* srouSw xytoym. 



TO FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA, 

GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER-GENERAL OF THE ORDNANCE, 
CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC. 

My Lord : — It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedication to your Lordship without calling to 
mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce an eulogium on 
Hercules. " On Hercules !" said the honest Spartan, " who ever thought of blaming Hercules ?" In a 
similar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left to the panegyrist of your Lordship a rery super- 
fluous task I shall therefore be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your indulgence to the very 
humble tribute of gratitude, which I have here the honour to present. 

I am, my lord, with every feeling of attachment and respect, 

Your Lordship's very devoted Servant, 
27, Bury Street, St. James's, April 10, 1806. THOMAS MOORE 



PREFACE. 



The principal poems in the following Collection 
were written during an absence of fourteen months 
from Europe. Though curiosity was certainly not 
the motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened 
that the gratification of curiosity was the only advan- 
tage which I derived from it. Finding myself in the 
country of a new people, whose infancy had promised 
so much, and whose progress to maturity has been an 
object of such interesting speculation, I determined to 
employ the short period of time, which my plan of 
return to Europe afforded me, in travelling through a 
few of the States and acquiring some knowledge of 
the inhabitants. 

The impression which my mind received from the 
character and manners of these republicans, suggest- 
ed the Epistles which are written from the city of 
Washington and Lake Erie. 1 How far 1 was right, 
in thus assuming the tone of a satirist against a peo- 
ple whom I viewed but as a stranger and a visitor, is 
a doubt which my feelings did not allow me time to 
investigate. All I presume to answer for, is the 
fidelity of the picture which I have given ; and though 
prudence might have dictated gentler language, truth? 
I think, would have justified severer. 

I went to America, with prepossessions by no 
means unfavourable, and indeed rather indulged in 

1 Epistles VI, VII, and VIII. 



many of those illusive ideas, with respect to the purity 
of the government and the primitive happiness of the 
people, which I had early imbibed in my native coun- 
try, where, unfortunately, discontent at home enhances 
every distant temptation, and the western world has 
long been looked to as a retreat from real or imagi 
nary oppression ; as the elysian Atlantis, where per 
secuted patriots might find their visions realized, and 
be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and repose. 
I was completely disappointed in every flattering ex 
pectation which I had formed, and was inclined to 
say to America, as Horace says to his mistress, " in- 
tentata nites." Brissot, in the preface to his travels, 
observes, that "freedom in that country is carried 
to so high a degree as to border upon a state of na 
ture ;" and there certainly is a close approximation to 
savage life, not only in the liberty which they enjoy, 
but in the violence of party spirit and of private ani- 
mosity which results from it. This illiberal zeal em 
bitters all social intercourse ; and, though I scarcely 
could hesitate in selecting the party, whese views ap- 
peared the more pure and rational, yet I was sorry to 
observe that, in asserting their opinions, they both 
assume an equal share of intolerance ; the Democrats, 
consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgari- 
ty of rancour, which the Federalists too often are so 
forgetful of their cause as to imitate. 

The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and in 
deed the unpolished state of society in general, would 
neither surprise nor disgust if they seemed to flow 



100 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



from that simplicity of character, that honest igno- 
rance of the gloss of refinement, which may be look- 
ed for in a new and inexperienced people. But, 
when we find them arrived at maturity in most of the 
vices, and all the pride, of civilization, while they are 
still so remote from its elegant characteristics, it is 
impossible not to feel that this youthful decay, this 
crude anticipation of the natural period of corruption, 
represses every sanguine hope of the future energy 
and greatness of America. 

I am conscious that, in venturing these few re- 
marks, I have said just enough to offend, and by no 
means sufficient to convince ; for the limits of a pre- 
face will not allow me to enter into a justification of 
my opinions, and I am committed on the subject as 
effectually, as if I had written volumes in their de- 
fence. My reader, however, is apprized of the very 
cursory observation upon which these opinions are 
founded, and can easily decide for himself upon the 
degree of attention or confidence which they merit. 

With respect to the poems in general, which oc- 
cupy the following pages, I know not in what manner 
to apologize to the public for intruding upon their 
notice such a mass of unconnected trifles, such a 
world of epicurean atoms as I have here brought in 
conflict together. To say that I have been tempted 
by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse 
which can hope for but little indulgence from the 
critic ; yet I own that, without this seasonable induce- 
ment, these poems very possibly would never have 
been submitted to the world. The glare of publica- 
tion is too strong for such imperfect productions : 
they should be shown but to the eye of friendship, in 
that dim light of privacy, which is as favourable to 
poetical as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for 
faults, while it enhances every charm which it dis- 
plays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle oc- 
cupations of poetry, and times like the present re- 
quire talents more active and more useful. Few have 
now the leisure to read such trifles, and I sincerely 
tegret that I have had the leisure to write them. 



EPISTLE I. 
TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD. 

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE OFF THE AZORES i 
BY MOONLIGHT. 

Sweet Moon ! if like Crotona's sage, 1 

By any spell my hand could dare 
To make thy disk its ample page, 

And write my thoughts, my wishes there ; 
How many a fiiend, whose careless eye 
Now wanders o'er that starry sky, 
Should smile, upon thy orb to meet 
The recollection, kind and sweet, 
The reveries of fond regret, 
The promise, never to forget, 
And all my heart and soul would send 
To many a dear-lov'd, distant friend ! 

Oh Strangford ! when we parted last, 
I little thought the times were past, 



1 Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of 
writing upon the Moon, by the means of a magic mirror. 
See Bayle, Art. Pythag. 



For ever past, when brilliant joy 
Was all my vacant heart's employ : 
When, fresh from mirth to mirth again, 

We thought the rapid hours too few, 
Our only use for knowledge then 

To turn to rapture all we knew ! 
Delicious days of whim and soul ! 

When, mingling lore and laugh together 
We lean'd the book on pleasure's bowl, 

And turn'd the leaf with folly's feather ! 
I little thought that all were fled, 
That, ere that summer's bloom was shed, 
My eye should see the sail unfurl'd 
That wafts me to the western world ! 
And yet 'twas time — in youthful days, 
To cool the season's burning rays, 
The heart may let its wanton wing 
Repose awhile in pleasure's spring, 
But, if it wait for winter's breeze, 
The spring will dry, the heart will freeze ! 
And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope, 

Oh ! she awak'd such happy dreams, 
And gave my soul such tempting scope 

For all its dearest, fondest schemes, 
That not Verona's child of song, 

When flying from the Phrygian shore, 
With lighter hopes could bound along, 

Or pant to be a wanderer more ! ' 
Even now delusive hope will steal 
Amid the dark regrets I feel, 
Soothing as yonder placid beam 

Pursues the murmurers of the deep, 
And lights them with consoling gleam, 

And smiles them into tranquil sleep ! 
Oh ! such a blessed night as this, 

I often think, if friends were near, 
How we should feel, and gaze with bliss 

Upon the moon-bright scenery here ! 
The sea is like a silvery lake, 

And, o'er its calm the vessel glides 
Gently, as if it fear'd to wake 

The slumber of the silent tides ! 
The only envious cloud that lowers, 

Hath hung its shade on Pico's height, 2 
Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers, 

And scowling at this heav'n of light, 
Exults to see the infant storm 
Cling darkly round his giant form ! 

Now, could I range those verdant isles 

Invisible, at this soft hour, 
And see the looks, the melting smiles, 

That brighten many an orange bower ; 
And could I lift each pious veil, 

And see the blushing cheek it shades, 
Oh ! I should have full many a tale, 

To tell of young Azorian maids. 3 



1 Alluding to these animated lines in the 44th Carmen of 
this Poet : 

Jam mens praetrepidans avet vagari, 
Jam Iceti studio pedes vigescunt! 

2 Pico is a very high mountain on one of the Azores, from 
which the Island derives its name. It is said by some to be 
as high as the Peak of Teneriffe. 

3 I believe it is Guthrie who sr.ys, that the inhabitants n? 
the Azores are much addicted to gallantry. This is an as- 
sertion in which «veu Guthrie may be credited 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



101 



Dear Strangford ! at this hour, perhaps, 

Some faithful lover (not so blest 
As they, who in their ladies' laps 

May cradle every wish to rest,) 
Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul, 

Those madrigals, of breath divine, 
Which Camoen's harp from rapture stole 

And gave, all glowing warm, to thine I 1 
Oh ! could the lover learn from thee, 

A nd breathe them with thy graceful tone, 
Such dear, beguiling minstrelsy 

Would make the coldest nymph his own ! 
But hark ! the boatswain's pipings tell 
'Tis time to bid my dream farewell : 
Eight bells: — the middle watch is set : 
Good night, my Strangford, ne'er forget 
That far beyond the western sea 2 
Is one, wnose heart remembers thee ! 



STANZAS. 



e-j.u 



is wot' s.uoj 

/US 7Tp0T$WVSl TCtil* 

r»vu)0-xs -r'xv3^cu5T£«x ft* (Tt&siv uyxv. . 
JEschijl. Fragment. 



A beam of tranquillity smil'd in the west, 
The stems of the morning pursued us no more, 

And the wave, while it welcom'd the moment of rest, 
Still heav'd, as remembering ills that were o'er ! 

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour, 
Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead, 

And the spirit becalm'd but remember'd their power, 
As the billow the force of the gale that was fled ! 

I thought of the days, when to pleasure alone 
My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh ; 

When the saddest emotion my bosom had known 
Was pity for those who were wiser than I ! 

I felt how the pure, intellectual fire 

In luxury loses its heavenly ray ; 
How soon, in the lavishing cup of desire, 

The pearl of the soul may be melted away ! 

And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame, 
That pleasure no more might its purity dim : 

And that sullied but little, or brightly the same, 
I might give back the gem I had borrow'd from him ! 

The thought was ecstatic ! I felt as if Heaven 
Had already the wreath of eternity shown; 

As if, passion all chasten'd and error forgiven, 
My heart had begun to be purely its own ! 

I look'd to the west, and the beautiful sky 

Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more : 

M Oh ! thus," I exclaim'd, "can a heavenly eye 
Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before !" 



1 These islands belong to the Portuguese. 

2 From CapL Cockburn, who commanded the Phaeton, I 
received such kind attentions as I must ever remember with 
gratitude. As some of the journalists have gra vH/ asserted 
that I went to America to speculate in lands, it miy not be 
impertinent to state, that the object of this voyage across the 
Atlantic was my appointment to the office of Registrar of 
the Vice-Admir'aUy Court of Bermuda. 



THE TELL-TALE LYRE. 
I've heard, there was in ancient days 

A Lyre of most melodious spell ; 
'Twas heav'n to hear its fairy lays, 

If half be true that legends tell. 
'Twas play'd on by the gentlest sighs, 

And to their breath it breath'd again 
In such entrancing melodies 

As ear had never drunk till then ! 
Not harmony's serenest touch 

So stilly could the notes prolong; 
They were not heavenly song so much 

As they were dreams of heavenly song ! 
If sad the heart, whose murmuring air 

Along the chords in languor stole, 
The soothings it awaken' d there 

Were eloquence from pity's soul ! 
Or if the sigh, serene and light, 

Was but the breath of fancied woes, 
The string, that felt its airy flight, 

Soon whisper'd it to kind repose ! 
And oh ! when lovers talk'd alone, 

If, mid their bliss the Lyre was near, 
It made their murmurs all its own, 

And echoed notes that heav'n might hear ! 
There was a nymph, who long had lov'd, 

But dar'd not tell the world how well ; 
The shades, where she at evening rov'd, 

Alone could know, alone could tell. 
'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole 

So oft, to make the dear-one bless'd, 
Whom love had giv'n her virgin soul, 

And nature soon gave ail the rest ! 

It chane'd that in the fairy bower 

Where they had found their sweetest shed, 
This Lyre, of strange and magic power, 

Hung gently whispering o'er their head. 
And while, with eyes of mingling fire, 

They listen'd to each other's vow, 
The youth full oft would make the Lyre 

A pillow for his angel's brow ! 
And while the melting words she breath'd 

On all its echoes wanton'd round, 
Her hair, amid the strings enwreath'd, 

Through golden mazes charm'd the sound 
Alas ! their hearts but little thought, 

While thus entrane'd they listening lay, 
That every sound the Lyre was taught 

Should linger long, and long betray ! 
So mingled with its tuneful soul 

Were all their tender murmurs grown, 
That other sighs unanswered stole, 

Nor chang'd the sweet, the treasur'd tone 
Unhappy nymph ! thy name was sung 

To every passing lip that sigh'd ; 
The secrets of thy gentle tongue 

On every ear in murmurs died ! 
The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand 

Hung high, amid the breezy groves, 
To every wanton gale that fann'd 

Betray'd the mystery of your loves ' 



102 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Yet, oh ! — not many a suffering hour, 

Thy cup of shame on earth was giv'n : 
Benignly came some pitying Power, 

And took the Lyre and thee to Heaven ! 
There as thy lover dries the tear 

Yet warm from life's malignant wrongs, 
Within his arms, thou lov'st to hear 

The luckless Lyre's remember'd songs ! 
Still do your happy souls attune 

The notes it learn'd, on earth, to move ; 
Still breathing o'er the chords, commune 

In sympathies of angel love ! 

TO THE FLYING-FISH. 1 

When I have seen thy snowy wing 
O'er the blue wave at evening spring, 
And give those scales, of silver white, 
So gaily to the eye of light, 
As if thy frame were form'd to rise, 
And live amid the glorious skies ; 
Oh ! it has made me proudly feel, 
How like thy wing's impatient zeal 
Is the pure soul, that scorns to rest 
Upon the world's ignoble breast, 
But takes the plume that God has given, 
And rises into light and heaven ! 

But, when I see that wing, so bright, 
Grow languid with a moment's flight, 
Attempt the paths of air in vain, 
And sink into the waves again : 
Alas ! the flattering pride is o'er , 
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar, 
But erring man must blush to think, 
Like thee, again, the soul may sink ! 

Oh Virtue ! when thy clime I seek, 
Let not my spirit's flight be weak : 
Let me not, like this feeble thing, 
With brine still dropping from its wing, 
Just sparkle in the solar glow, 
And plunge again to depths below ; 
But, when I leave the grosser throng 
With whom my soul hath dwelt so long 
Let me, in that aspiring day, 
Cast every lingering stain away, 
And, panting for thy purer air, 
Fly up at once and fix me there ! 



EPISTLE II. 
TO MISS M 



-E. 



FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOV. 1803. 

In days, my Kate, when life was new, 
When, lull'd with innocence and you, 



] ft is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I be- 
lieve of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were 
originally produced from the waters ; in defence of which 
idea they have collected every fanciful circumstance which 
can tend to prove a kindred similitude between them; 
rvyyevetxv toiS 7rtTofavoif 7rpog tm v^t*. With this 
thought in our minds when we first see the Flying-Fish, we 
could almost fancy, that we are present at the moment of 
creation, and witness the birth of the first bird from the 
waves. 



I heard, *n home's beloved shade, 
The din the world at distance made ; 
When every night my weary head 
Sunk on its own unthorned bed, 
And, mild as evening's matron hour 
Looks on the faintly shutting flower, 
A mother saw our eyelids close, 
And bless'd them into pure repose ! 
Then, haply, if a week, a day, 
I linger'd from your arms away, 
How long the little absence seem'd ! 
How bright the look of welcome beam'd 
As mute you heard, with eager smile, 
My tales of all that pass'd the while ! 
Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea 
Rolls wide between that home and me ; 
The moon may thrice be born and die, 
Ere e'en your seal can reach mine eye ; 
And oh ! e'en then, that darling seal, 
(Upon whose print, I us'd to feel 
The breath of home, the cordial air 
Of loved lips, still freshly there !) 
Must come, alas ! through every fate 
Of time and distance, cold and late, 
When the dear hand, whose touches fill'd 
The leaf with sweetness, may be chill'd . 
But hence, that gloomy thought ! — At last, 
Beloved Kate ! the waves are past : 
I tread on earth securely now, 
And the green cedar's living bough 
Breathes more refreshment to my eyes 
Than could a Claude's divinest dies ! 

At length I touch the happy sphere 
To Liberty and Virtue dear, 
Where man looks up, and proud to claim 
His rank within the social frame, 
Sees a grand system round him roll, 
Himself its centre, sun, and soul ! 
Far from the shocks of Europe ; far 
From every wild elliptic star 
That, shooting with a devious fire, 
Kindled by heaven's avenging ire, 
So oft hath into chaos hurl'd 
The systems of the ancient world ! 
The warrior here, in arms no more, 
Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er, 
And glorying in the rights they won 
For hearth and altar, sire and son, 
Smiles on the dusky webs that hide 
His sleeping sword's remember'd pride ! 
While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil, 
Walks o'er the free, unlorded soil, 
Effacing with her splendid share 
The drops that war had sprinkled there 

Thrice happy land ! where he who flies 
From the dark ills of other skies, 
From scorn, or want's unnerving woes 
May shelter him in proud repose ! 
Hope sings along the yellow sand 
His welcome to a patriot land ; 
The mighty wood, with pomp, receives 
The stranger in its world of leaves, 
Which soon their barren glory yield 
To the warm shed and cultur'd fieid , 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



103 



And he who came, of all bereft, 

To whom mwlignant fate had left 

Nor home nor friends nor country dear, 

Finds home and friends and country here ! 

Such is th" picture, warmly such, 
Thf! lung the spell of fancy's touch 
Hath painted to my sanguine eye 
Of man's new world of liberty ! 
Oh ! ask me not if Truth will seal 
The reveries of fancy's zeal — 
If yet my charmed eyes behold 
These features of an age of gold- 
No — yet, alas ! no gleaming trace I 1 
Never did youth, who lov'd a face 
From portrait's rosy flattering art 
Recoil with more regret of heart, 
To find an owlet eye of grey, 
Where painting pour'd the sapphire's ray, 
Tht n I have felt, indignant felt, 
To think the glorious dreams should melt, 
Which oft, in boyhood's witching time, 
Have wrapt me to this wond'rous clime ! 
But, courage yet, my wavering heart ! 
Blame not the temple's meanest part, 2 
Till you have traced the fabric o'er :— 
As yet, we have beheld no more 
Than just the porch to freedom's fane; 
And, though a sable drop may stain 
The vestibule, 'tis impious sin 
To doubt there's holiness within ! 
So here I pause — and now, my Kate, 
To you (whose simplest ringlet's fate 
Can claim more .interest in my soul 
Than all the Powers from pole to pole) 
One word at parting : in the tone 
Most sweet to you, and most my own. 
The simple notes I send you here, 3 
Though rude and wild, would still be dear, 
If you but knew the trance of thought, 
In which my mind their murmurs caught. 
'Twas one of those enchanting dreams, 
That lull me oft, when Music seems 
To pour the soul in sound along, 
And turn its every sigh to song ! 
I thought of home, the according lays 
Respir'd the breath of happier days ; 
Warmly in every rising note 
I felt some dear remembrance float 
Till, led by music's fairy chain, 
I wander' d back to home again ! 



1 Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's 
Letters," and the "Account of Kentucky by Imlay," would 
seduce us into a belief, that innocence, peace, and freedom 
had deserted the rest of the world for Martha's Vineyard 
and the banks of the Ohio. The French travellers too, 
almost all from revolutionary motives, have contributed 
their share to the diffusion of this flattering misconception. 
A visit to the country is, however, quite sufficient to cor- 
rect even the most enthusiastic prepossession. 

2 Norfolk, it must be owned, is an unfavourable specimen 
of America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are 
not such as can delight either the politician or the moralist, 
and at Norfolk they are exhibited in their least attractive 
form. At the time when we arrived, the yellow fever had 
not yet disappeared, and every odour that assailed us in the 
streets very strongly accounted for its visitation. 

3 A trifling attempt at musical composition accompanied 
this epistle. 



Oh ! love the song, and let it oft 

Live on your lip, in warble soft ! 

Say that it tells you, simply welL 

All I have bid its murmurs tell, 

Of memory's glow, of dreams that shed 

The tinge of joy when joy is fled, 

And all the heart's illusive hoard 

Of love renew'd and friends restor'd ! 

Now, Sweet, adieu — this artless air, 

And a few rhymes, in transcript fair, 1 

Are all the gifts I yet can boast 

To send you from Columbia's coast ; 

But when the sun, with warmer smile, 

Shall light me to my destin'd Isle, 2 

You shall have many a cowslip-bell 

Where Ariel slept, and many a shell, 

In which the gentle spirit drew 

From honey flowers the morning dew . 



TO CARA, 

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE. 

Conceal'd within the shady wood 
A mother left her sleeping child 

And flew to cull her rustic food, 
The fruitage of the forest wild. 

But storms upon her path-way rise, 
The mother roams astray and weeping, 

Far from the weak appealing cries 
Of him she left so sweetly sleeping. 

She hopes, she fears — a light is seen, 
And gentler blows the night-wind's breath 

Yet no — 'tis gone — the storms are keen, 
The baby may be chill'd to death ; 

Perhaps his little eyes are shaded 

Dim by Death's eternal chill — 
And yet, perhaps, they are not faded ; 

Life and love may light them still. 

Thus, when my soul with parting sigh, 
Hung on thy hand's bewildering touch, 

And, timid, ask'd that speaking eye, 
If parting pain'd thee half so much — 

I thought, and, oh ! forgive the thought, 
For who, by eyes like thine inspir'd, 

Could ere resist the flattering fault 
Of fancying what his soul desir'd? 

Yes — I did think, in Cara's mind, 
Though yet to Cara's mind unknown, 

I left one infant wish behind, 
One feeling, which I call'd my own ! 

Oh, blest ! though but in fancy blest, 

How did I ask of pity's care, 
To shield and strengthen in thy breast, 

The nursling I had cradled there. 

And, many an hour beguil'd by pleasure, 
And many an hour of sorrow numbering, 

I ne'er forget the new-born treasure. 
I left within thy bosom slumbering. 



1 The poems which immediately follow. 

2 Bermuda. 



»04 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Perhaps, indifference has not chill'd it, 
HapJy, it yet a throb may give — 

Yet no — perhaps, a doubt has kill'd it ! 
Oh, Cara \—does the infant live ? 



TO CARA, 

ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S PAY 

When midnight came to close the year, 
We sigh'd to think it thus should take 

The hours it gave us — hours as dear 
As sympathy and love could make 

Their blessed moments ! every sun 

Saw us, my love, more closely one ! 

But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh 
Which came another year to shed, 

The smile we caught from eye to eye 
Told us those moments were not fled ; 

Oh no ! we felt some future sun 

Should see us still more closely one ! 

Thus may we ever, side by side, 
From happy years to happier glide ; 
And, still, my Cara, may the sigh 

We give to hours, that vanish o'er us, 
Be follow'd by the smiling eye, 

That Hope shall shed on scenes before us ! 



TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL. 1 

They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite, 
That you are not a daughter of ether and light, 
Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms 
That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms; 
That, in short, your're a woman ; your lip and your 

breast 
As mortal as ever were tasted or press'd ! 
But I will not believe them — no, science ! to you 
I have long bid a last and a careless adieu : 
Still flying from Nature to study her laws, 
And dulling delight by exploring its cause, 
You forget how superior, for mortals below, 
Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know. 
Oh ! who, that has ever had rapture complete, 
Would ask how we feel it, or why it is sweet ; 
How rays are confused, or how particles fly 
Through the medium refin'd of a glance or a sigh ! 
Is there one, who but once would not rather have 

known it, 
Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon 

it? 
No, no — but for you, my invisible love, 
I will swear, you are one of those spirits that rove 
By the bank where, at twilight, the poet reclines, 
When the star of the west on his solitude shines, 
And the magical fingers of fancy have hung 
Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue ! 
Oh ! whisper him then, 'tis retirement alone 
Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone ; 
Like you, with a veil of seclusion between, 
Hjs song to the world let him utter unseen, 



1 This and the subsequent poem have appeared in the 
j.ublic prints. 



And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres, 

Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears ! 

Sweet spirit of mystery ! how I should love, 

In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove, 

To have you for ever invisibly nigh, 

Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh ! 

'Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs o* 

care 
I might sometimes converse with my nymph of th 

air, 
And turn with disgust from the clamorous crew, 
To steal in the pauses one whisper from you. 

Oh ! come and be near me, for ever be mine, 
We shall hold in the air a communion divine, 
As sweet as, of old, was imagin'd to dwell 
In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell. 
And oft, at those lingering moments of night, 
When the heart is weigh'd down and the eyelid is 

light, 
You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love, 
Such as angel to angel might whisper above ! 
Oh Spirit ! — and then, could you borrow the tone 
Of that voice, to my ear so bewitchingly known, 
The voice of the one upon earth, who has twin'd 
With her essence for ever my heart and my mind ! 
Though lonely and far from the light of her smile, 
And exile and weary and hopeless the while, 
Could you shed for a moment that voice on my ear, 
I will think at that moment my Cara is near, 
That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak, 
And kisses my eyelid and sighs on my cheek, 
And tells me, the night shall go rapidly by, 
For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh ! 

Sweet Spirit ! if such be your magical power, 
It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour ; 
And let Fortune's realities frown as they will, 
Hope, Fancy, and Cara may smile for me still. 



PEACE AND GLORY. 

WRITTEN AT THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE 
PRESENT WAR. 

Where now is the smile that lighten'd 

Every hero's couch of rest ? 
Where is now the hope that brightened 

Honour's eye, and pity's breast ? 
Have we lost the wreath we braided, 

For our weary warrior men ? 
Is the faithless olive faded, 

Must the bay be pluck' d again ? 

Passing hour of sunny weather, 

Lovely in your light awhile, 
Peace and Glory, wed together, 

Wander'd through the blessed isle ; 
And the eyes of Peace would glisten, 

Dewy as a morning sun, 
When the timid maid would listen 

To the deeds her chief had done. 

Is the hour of dalliance over ? 

Must the maiden's trembling feet 
Waft her from her warlike lovei 

To the desert's still retreat ? 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



105 



Fare you well ! with sighs we banish 
Nymph so fair and guest so bright ; 

Yet the smile, with which you vanish, 
Leaves behind a soothing light ! 

Soothing light ! that long shall sparkle 

O'er your warrior's sanguine way, 
Through the field where horrors darkle, 

Shedding Hope's consoling ray ! 
Long the smile his heart will cherish, 

To its absent idol true, 
While around him myriads perish, 

Glory still will sigh for you ! 



To , 1801. 

To be the theme of every hour 

The heart devotes to fancy's power, 

When her soft magic fills the mind 

With friends and joys we've left behind, 

And joys return, and friends are near, 

And all are welcom'd with a tear — 

In the mind's purest seat to dwell, 

To be remember'd oft and well 

By one whose heart, though vain and wild, 

By passion led, by youth beguil'd, 

Can proudly still aspire to know 

The feeling soul's divinest glow ! 

If thus to live in every part 

Of a lone weary wanderer's heart ; 

If thus to be its sole employ 

Can give thee one faint gleam of joy, 

Believe it, Mary ! oh ! believe 

A tongue that never can deceive, 

When passion doth not first betray 

And tinge the thought upon its way ! 

In pleasure's dream or sorrow's hour, 

In crowded hall or lonely bower, 

The business of my life shall be, 

For ever to remember thee ! 

And though that heart be dead to mine, 

Since love is life and wakes not thine, 

I'll take thy image, as the form 

Of something I should long to warm, 

Which, though it yield no answering thrill, 

Is not less dear, is lovely still ! 

I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray, 

The bright, cold burthen of my way ! 

To keep this semblance fresh in bloom, 

My heart shall be its glowing tomb, 

And love shall lend his sweetest care, 

With memory to embalm it there ! 



SONG. 
Take back the sigh, thy lips of art 

ji passion's moment breath'd to me ! 
Yet, no — h must not, will not part, 
Tis now the life-breath of my heart, 

And has become too pure for thee ! 

Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh 

With all the warmth of truth imprest; 
Yet, no — the fatal kiss may lie : 
Upon thy lip its sweets would die, 
Or bloom to make a rival blest ! 
O 



Take back the vows that, night and day, 
My heart receiv'd, I thought, from thine , 

Yet, no — allow them still to stay ; 

They might some other heart betray, 
As sweetly as they've ruin'd mine ! 



j/ A BALLAD. 

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 

WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIR< 1NIA. 

" They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the 
death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing 
from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had 
frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, 
but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wan 
dered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger 
or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses." — Anon. 

" La Poesie a ses monstres comme la nature." 

D'Membert- 

" They made her a grave, too cold and damp 

For a soul so warm and true ; 
And she 's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, 1 
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, 

She paddles her white canoe. 

" And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, 

And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 
Long and loving our life shall be, 
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, 

When the footstep of death is near !" 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — 

His path was rugged and sore, 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, 

And man never trod before ! 

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, 

If slumber his eyelids knew, 
He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew ! 

And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake, 
And the copper-snake breath'd in his ear, 
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 
" Oh ! when shall I see the dusky Lake, 
And the white canoe of my dear?" 

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface play'd — 
" Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light !'* 
And the dim shore echoed, for many a night, 

The name of the death cold maid ! 

Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, 

Which carried him off from shore ; 
Far he follow'd the meteor spark, 
The wind was high and the clouds were dark, 

And the boat retum'd no more. 

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp 
This lover and maid so true 



1 The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant 
from Norfolk, and the lake in the middle of it (about seven 
miles long) is called Drummond's Fond. 



:\ 



) 



106 



MOORE'S WORKS 



Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp, 
To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp, 
And paddle their white canoe ! 



EPISTLE III. 

TO THE 

MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF D— LL. 

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY 1804. 

Lady, where'er you roam, whatever beam 
Of bright creation warms your mimic dream ; 
Whether you trace the valley's golden meads, 
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads ;* 
Enamour'd catch the mellow hues that sleep, 
At eve on Meillerie's immortal steep ; 
Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline, 
Mark the last shadow on the holy shrine, 2 
Where, many a night, the soul of Tell complains 
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains ; 
Oh ! lay the pencil for a moment by, 
Turn from the tablet that creative eye, 
And let its splendour, like the morning ray 
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay ! 

Yet, Lady ! no — for song so rude as mine, 
Chase not the wonders of your dream divine ; 
Still, radiant eye ! upon the tablet dwell ; 
Still, rosy finger ! weave your pictur'd spell ; 
And, while I sing the animated smiles 
Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles, 
Oh ! might the song awake some bright design, 
Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy line, 
Proud were my soul, to see its humble thought 
On painting's mirror so divinely caught, 
And wondering Genius, as he learn'd to trace 
The faint conception kindling into grace, 
Might love my numbers for the spark they threw, 
And bless the lay that lent a charm to you. 

Have you not oft, in nightly vision, stray'd 
To the pure isles of ever-blooming shade, 
Which bards of old, with kindly magic, plac'd 
For happy spirits in th' Atlantic waste ? 3 
There, as eternal gales, with fragrance warm, 
Breath'd from elysium through each shadowy form 
In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song, 
They charm'd their lapse of nightless hours along! 
Nor yet in song, that mortal ear may suit, 
For every spirit was itself a lute, 
Where Virtue wakened with elysian breeze, 
Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies 
Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland 
Floated our bark to this enchanted land, 
These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown, 
Like studs of envald o'er a silver zone ; 



1 Lady D., I supposed, was at this time still in Switzer- 
.and, where the powers of her pencil must have been fre- 
quently awakened. 

2 The chapel of William Tell, on the Lake of Lucerne. 

3 M. Gebelin says, in his Monde Primitif, " Lorsqne Stra- 
bon crut que les anciens theologiens et Poetes placaient 
les Champs Elysees dans '.es Isles de l'Ocean Atlantique, il 
n entendit rien a leur doctrine." M. Gebelin's supposition, 
I have no doubt, is the more correct ; but that of Strabo is, 
in the present instance, most to my purpose. 



I Not all the charm, that ethnic fancy gave 
To blessed arbours o'er the western wave, 
Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime, 
Of bowers etherial and the spirit's clime ! 

The morn was lovely, every wave was still, 
When the first perfume of a cedar-hill 
Sweetly awak'd us, and with smiling charms, 
The fairy harbour woo'd us to its arms ' 
Gently we stole, before the languid wind, 
Through plantain shades, that like an awning twin d 
And kiss'd on either side the wanton sails, 
Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales ; 
While, far reflected o'er the wave serene, 
Each wooded island sheds so soft a green, 
That the enamour'd keel, with whispering play, 
Through liquid herbage seem'd to steal its way • 
Never did weary bark more sweetly glide, 
Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide ! 
Along the margin, many a brilliant dome, 
White as the palace of a Lapland gnome, 
Brightened the wave ; in every myrtle grove 
Secluded, bashful, like a shrine of love, 
Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade ; 
And, while the foliage interposing play'd, 
Wreathing the structure into various grace, 
Fancy would love in many a form to trace 
The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch, 2 
And dream of temples, till her kindling torch 
Kghted me back to all the glorious days 
Of Attic genius ; and I seem'd to gaze 
On marble, from the rich Pentalic mount, 
Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount. 

Sweet airy being ! 3 who, in brighter hours, 
Liv'd on the perfume of these honied bowers, 
In velvet buds, at evening, lov'd to he, 
And win with music every rose's sigh ! 
Though weak the magic of my humble strain, 
To charm your spirit from its orb again, 
Yet, oh ! for her, beneath whose smile I sing, 
For her, (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing 
Were dimm'd or ruffled by a wintry sky, 
Could smooth its feather and relume its dye,) 
A moment wander from your starry sphere, 
And if the lime-tree grove that once was dear, 



1 Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbour 
of St. George. The number of beautiful islets, the singular 
clearness of the water, and the animated play of the | we- 
ful little boats, gliding for ever between the island's fi«c 
seeming to sail from one cedar grove into another, form, all 
together, the sweetest miniature of nature that can be im- 
agined. 

2 This is an illusion which, to the few who are fanciful 
enough to indulge in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda 
particularly interesting. In the short but beautiful twilight 
of their spring evenings, the white cottages, scattered ovei 
the islands, and but partially seen through the trees that sur- 
round them, assume often the appearance of little Greciau 
temples, and fancy may embellish the poor fisherman's hut 
with columns which the pencil of Claude might imitate. I 
had one favourite object of this kind in my walks, which 
the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, by asking me to 
visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me well 
and warmly, but I never could turn his house into a Grecian 
temple again. 

3 Ariel. Among the many charms which Bermuda, hag 
for a poetic eye, we cannot for an instant forget that it is 
the scene of Shakspeare's Tempest, and that here he con- 
jured up the " delicate Ariel," who alone is worth the whole 
heaven of ancient mythology. 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC 



107 



The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill, 
The sparkling grotto, can vlelight you still, 
Oh ! take their fairest tint .heir softest light, 
Weave all their beauty into dreams of night, 
And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies, 
Shed the warm picture o'er her mental eyes ; 
Borrow for sleep her own creative spells, 
A.nd brightly show what song but faintly tells ! 



THE GENIUS OF HARMONY. 

AN IRREGULAR ODE. 

Ad harmoniam canere mundum. 

Cicero de Nat. Dear. Lib. 3. 

There lies a shell beneath the waves, 
In many a hollow winding wreath'd 
Such as of old, 
Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breath'd ; 
This magic shell 
FrOm the white bosom of a syren fell, 
As once she wander'd by the tide that laves 
Sicilia's sand of gold. 
It bears 
Upon its shining side, the mystic notes 

Of those entrancing airs, 1 
The genii of the deep were wont to swell, 
When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music 
roll'd ! 
Oh ! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats ; 
And, if the power 
Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear, 
Go, bring the bright shell to my bower, 
And I will fold thee in such downy dreams, 
As lap the spirit of the seventh sphere, 
When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear ! 2 

And thou shalt own, 
That, through the circle of creation's zone, 



1 In the " Historie Naturelle des Antilles," there is an ac- 
count of some curious shells, found atCuracoa, on the back 
of which were lines, rilled with musical characters, so dis- 
tinct and perfect, that the writer assures us a very charming 
trio was sung from one of them. "On le nomme musical, 
parce qu'il porte sur le dos des lignes noiratres p'eines de 
notes, qui ont une espece de cle pour les mettre en chant, 
de sorte que Ton dirait qu'il ne manque que la lettj i a cette 
tablature naturelle. Ce curieux gentilhomme (M. /u Mon- 
tel) rapporte qu'il en a vu qui avaient cinq lignes, une cle 
et des notes, qui formaient un accord parfait. Quelqu'un 
y avait ajoute la lettre, que la nature avail oubliee, et la 
faisait chanter en forme de trio, dont l'aire etait fort agrea- 
ble." Chap. 19. Art. 11. The author adds, a poet might 
imagine that these shells were used by the syrens at their 
concerts. 

2 According to Cicero, and his commentator, Macrobius, 
the lunar tone is the gravest and faintest on the planetary 
heptachord. " Quam ob causam summus ille cceli stellifer 
cursus, cujus conversio est concitatior, acuto et excitato 
movetur sono : gravissimo autem hie lunaris atque infimus." 
— Somn. Scip. Because, says Macrobius, "3piritu ut in 
extremitate languescente jam volvitur, et propter angustias 
quibus penultimus orbis arctatur impetu leniore converti- 
tur." — In Somn. Scip. Lib. 2. Cap. 4. It is not very easy 
to understand the ancients in their musical arrangement of 
the heavenly bodies. See Ptolem. Lib. 3. 

Leone Hebreo, pursuing the idea of Aristotle, that the 
heavens are animal, attributes their harmony to perfect and 
reciprocal love. " Non pero manca fra loro il perfetto e 
reciproco amore : la causa principale, che ne mostra il loro 
amore, e la lor amicizia harmoniaca e la concordanza, che 
perpetuamente si trova in loro." — Dialog-. 2. di Jlmore, p. 
58. This " reciproco amore" of Leone is the c<x.oti)j of 
the ancient Empedocles, who seems, in his Love and Hate 
of the Elements, to have given a glimpse of the principles 



Where matter darkles or where spirit beams ; 
From the pellucid tides, 1 that whirl 
The planets through their maze of song, 
To the small rill, that weeps along 
Murmuring o'er beds of pearl ; 
From the rich sigh 
Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky, 2 
To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields 
On Afric's burning fields ; 3 
Oh ! thou shalt own this universe divine 
Is mine ! 
That I respire in all, and all in me, 
One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony ; 

Welcome, welcome mystic shell ! 
Many a star has ceas'd to burn 4 
Many a tear has Saturn's urn 
O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept, 5 
Since thy aerial spell 
Hath in the waters slept ! 

I fly, 

With the bright treasure to my choral sky, 
Where she, who wak'd its early swell, 
The syren, with a foot of fire, 
Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic L3Te, s 
Or guides around the burning pole 
The winged chariot of some blissful soul !* 
While thou ! 
Oh, son of earth ! what dreams shall rise for thee ! 
Beneath Hispania's sun, 
Thou'lt see a streamlet run, 
Which I have warm'd with dews of melody ; s 

Listen ! — when the night-wind dies 
Down the still current, like a harp it sighs ! 



of attraction and repulsion. See the fragment to which I 
allude in Laertius, Axkotz y.tv 9*\ot!)t*, o-uvEp^o/tsv'. a.t 
k. Lib. 8. Cap. n. 12. 

1 Leucippus, the atomist, imagined a kind of vortices in 
the heavens, which he borrowed from Anaxagoras, and 
possibly suggested to Descartes. 

2 Heraclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjectures 
that the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with 
this poet, who in representing the solar beams as arrows, 
supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the air. 

3 In the account of Africa which d' Ablancourt has trans- 
lated, there is mention of a tree in that country, whose 
branches when shaken by the hand produce very sweet 
sounds. "Le meme auteur (Abenzegar) dit, qu'il y a un- 
certain arbre,qui produitdesgaulescomme d'osier, et qu'en 
les prenant a la main et les branlant, elles font une espece 
d'harmonie fort agreable," etc. etc. — UJlfrique de Marmot. 

4 Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappea/ance 
of some of those fixed stars, wl 'ch we are taught to con- 
sider as suns, attended each by its system. Descartes thought 
that our earth might formerly have been a sun, which be- 
came obscured by a thick incrustation over its surface. This 
probably suggested the idea of a central fire. 

5 Porphyry says, that Pythagoras held the sea to be a tear. 
T>)i; $%-KxTTctv piv skxKii nvxt Sxxpvov. De Vit, and some 
one else, if I mistake not, has added the planet Saturn as the 
source of it. Empedocles, with similar affectation, called 
the sea "the sweat of the earth:" iSpjirst ry,s y^. See 
Riltershusius upon Porphyry, Num. 41. 

6 The system of harmonized orbs was styled by the an- 
cients, the Great Lyre of Orpheus, for which Lucian ac- 
counts, 1 Si Aupif iTTTXfilTOf SHTSS T))V TjlV XlVVftlVCUV C4(TT pco» 

ppovmv a-we&zK\£T0. x. t. \. in Jlstrolog. 
1 A<E*Xs -yu%*f «<rapi$,us; toij seo-Tpoi;, svnus 3-' s/.a<r- 

j)v jrpoj SX36O-T0V, xxt tftpipxTxg '£!£ EIS OXHMA, Pla 
ton. TimtBus. 

8 This musical river is mentioned in the romance of 
Achilles Tatius. Ejrsi wo-ra^n * * * ))v Si axsjtra* Sews t» 
vSxrog x«\svtoj. The Latin version, in supplying the hia 
tus, which is in the original, has placed the river in Hispa- 
nia. " In Hispahia quoque fluvius est, quem primo an 
pectu," etc. etc. 



IU8 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



A. liquid chord in every wave that flows, 
An airy plectrum every breeze that blows I 1 
There, by that wondrous stream, 
Go, lay thy languid brow, 
And I will send thee such a godlike dream, 
Such — mortal ! mortal ! hast thou heard of him, 2 
Who, many a night with his primordial lyre, 3 
Sat on the chill Pangaean mount, 4 
And, looking to the orient dim, 
Watch'd the first flowing of that sacred fount, 
From which his soul had drunk its fire ! 
, Oh ! think what visions, in that lonely hour, 
Stole o'er his musing breast ! 
What pious ecstasy 5 
Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power, 

Whose seal upon this world imprest 6 
The various forms of bright divinity ! 

Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove, 
'Mid the deep horror of that silent bower, 7 
Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber ? 
When, free 
From every earthly chain, 
From v/reaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain, 

His spirit flew through fields above, 
Drank at the source of nature's fontal number, 8 
And saw, in mystic choir, around him move 
The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstrelsy ! 
Such dreams, so heavenly bright, 
I swear 
By the great diadem that twines my hair, 
And by the seven gems that sparkle there, 9 



1 These two lines are translated from the words of Achil- 
les TatillS. E*i/ yap oKtyog avt,uog ng ts; Sivag e^^strjj, 
to fitv uJ-jup 015 XopSyj xpssera*. to St 7rvivy.x m vSxrog jtAex- 
rpov yiviTxi. to ptvfiz S$ u>g x«3-«pss kx'Ket. Lib. 2. 

2 Orpheus. 

3 They called his lyre*p%*»oTpojroi> t7rTx%ap$ov Op$sa>$. 
See a curious work by a professor of Greek at Venice, en- 
titled" Heudomades, sive septem de septenario libri." Lib. 
4. Cap. 3. p. 177. 

4 Eratosthenes, telling the extreme veneration of Orpheus 
for Apollo, says that he was accustomed to go to the Pan- 
gajan mountain at day-break, and there wait the rising of 
the sun, that he might be the first to hail its beams. E^s- 

ySlpOf&tvOg TE TIJS VU/CTOf , X.XTX TVjV Scod'JVqV (7TI TO 0O0J TO 

XXA.VUS1/0V Ilxyyaiov. Trpcasftivs to,; av«T0X«j, iva *d)) tov 
Hkioi —piorov. Kara<rrspt<Tfi. 24. 

5 There are some verses of Orpheus preserved to us, 
which contain sublime ideas of the unity and magnificence 
of the Deity. As those which Justin Martyr has produced : 

Outo? [j.iv %xXxe»0!/ tg xpxvov la-V^ptxTitt 

Xpuo-cito iVi -jpOVCO, X. T. A.. 

Ad Grmc. cohortat. 
It is thought by some, that these are to be reckoned 
amongst the fabrications which were frequent in the early 
times of Christianity. Still it appears doubtful to whom we 
should impute them ; they are too pious for the Pagans, and 
too poetical for the Fathers. 

6 In one of the Hymns of Orpheus, he attributes a figured 
seal to Apollo, with which he imagines that deity to have 
stamped a variety of forms upon the universe. 

7 Alluding to the cave near Samos, where Pythagoras 
devoted the greater part of his days and nights to medita- 
tion and the mysteries of his philosophy. Jamblich. de Vit. 
This, as Holstenius remarks, was in imitation of the Magi. 

8 The tetractys, or sacred number of the Pythagoreans, 
nn which they solemnly swore, and which they called -n-xyxv 
etsvses ©ikteu);, " the fountain of perennial nature." Lucian 
has ridiculed this religious arithmetic very finely in his Sale 
of Philosophers. 

9 This diadem is intended to represent the analogy be- 
tween the notes of music and the prismatic colours. We 
find in Plutarch a vague intimation of this kindred harmony 
in colours and sounds. O-^j; t« xki csxov, ftertt (paivijf t$ 
%%i $u>to{ t>j» ccp/tovieev f7ri$xtvvtrt. Z)e Musica. 



Mingling their beams 
In a soft Iris of harmonious light, 

Oh, mortal ! such shall be thy radiant dreams 1 



EPISTLE IV. 
TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ. 

OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA. 1 
FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY 1804. 

KEINH A' HNEMOESZA KAI ATPOFTOS, OIA 0'AAHT 
AHS, AI0TIHS KAI MAAAON EmAPOMOS HElIEf 

innois, noNTa enezthpiktai. 

Callimac/i, Hymn, in Del. v. ii. 

Oh ! what a tempest whirl'd us hither ! 2 

Winds, whose savage breath could wither 

All the light and languid flowers 

That bloom in Epicurus' bowers ! 

Yet think not, George, that Fancy's charm 

Forsook me in this rude alarm. 

When close they reef d the timid sail, 

When, every plank complaining loud, 
We labour'd in the midnight gale, 

And e'en our haughty main-mast bow'd ! 
The muse, in that unlovely hour, 
Benignly brought her soothing power, 
And, midst the war of waves and wind, 
In songs elysian lapp'd my mind ! 
She open'd, with her golden key, 

The casket where my memory lays 
Those little gems of poesy, 

Which time has sav'd from ancient day3 ! 
Take one of these, to Lais sung — 
I wrote it while my hammock swung, 
As one might write a dissertation 
Upon " suspended animation !" 



Cassiodorus, whose idea I may be supposed to have bor- 
rowed, says, in a letter upon music to Boetius, "Ut diade- 
roa oculis, varia luce gemmarum, sic cythara diversitate 
soni, blanditur auditui." This is indeed the only tolerable 
thought in the letter. Lib. 2. Variar. 

1 Thii gentleman is attached to the British consulate at 
Norfolk. His talents are worthy of a much higher sphere, 
but the excellent dispositions of the family with whom he 
resides, and the cordial repose he enjoys amongst some of 
the kindest hearts in the world, should be almost enough to 
atone to h>m for the worst caprices of fortune. The consul 
himself, Colonel Hamilton, is one among the very few in- 
stances of a man, ardently loyal to his king, and yet beloved 
by the Americans. His house is the very temple of hospi- 
tality, and I sincerely pity the heart of that stranger, who, 
warm from the welcome of such a board, and with the taste 
of such Madeira still upon his lips, "col dolce in bocca," 
could sit down to write a libel on his host, in the true spirit 
of a modern phrlosophist. See the Travels of the Duke de 
la Rochefoucault Liancourt, Vol. 2. 

2 We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to 
Bermuda, during three of which we were forced to lay-to 
in a gale of wind. The Driver, sloop of war, in which I 
went, was built at Bermuda, of cedar, and is accounted an 
excellent sea-boat. She was then commanded by my very 
regretted friend, Captain Compton, who in July last was 
killed aboard the Lilly, in an action with a French prha- 
teer. Poor Compton ! he fell a victim to the strange im- 
policy of allowing such a miserable thing as the Lilly to 
remain in the service : so small, so crank, and unmanage- 
able, that a well-manned merchantman was at any time a 
match for her. 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



1<K 



Sweetly 1 you kiss, my Lais dear! 
But, while you kiss, I feel a tear, 
Bitter as those when lovers part, 
In mystery from your eye-lid start ! 
Sadly you lean your head to mine, 
And round my neck in silence twine, 
Your hair along my bosom spread, 
All humid with the tears you shed ! 
Have 1 not kiss'd those lids of snow ? 
Yet still, my love, like founts they flow, 
Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet — 
Why is it thus ? do, tell me, Sweet ! 
Ah, Lais ! are my bodings right? 
Am I to lose you ? is to-night 
Our last— go, false to heaven and me ! 
Your very tears are treachery. 



Such, while in air I floating hung, 

Such was the strain, Morgante mio ! 
The muse and I together sung, 

With Boreas to make out the trio ; 
But, bless the little fairy isle ! 

How sweetly after all our ills, 
We saw the dewy morning smile 

Serenely o'er its fragrant hills ! 
And felt the pure, elastic flow 
Of airs, that round this Eden blow, 
With honey freshness, caught by stealth 
Warm from the very lips of health ! 
Oh ! could you view the scenery dear 

That now beneath my window lies, 
You'd think, that Nature lavish'd here 

Her purest wave, her softest skies, 
To make a heaven for Love to sigh in, 
For bards to live, and saints to die in ! 
Close to my wooded bank below, 

In glassy calm the waters sleep, 
And to the sun-beam proudly show 

The coral rocks they love to steep ! 2 
The fainting breeze of morning fails, 

The drowsy boat moves slowly past, 
And I can almost touch its sails 

That languish idly round the mast. 



1 This epigram is by Paulus Silentiarius, and ma} )e 
found in the Analecta of Brunck, Vol. 8. p. 72. But as the 
reading there is somewhat different from what I have fol- 
bwed in this translation, I shall give it as T had it in my 
memory at the time, and as it is in Heinsius, who, I believe, 
first produced the epigram. See his Poemata. 

'HSv ftev eo-tj ipiXviftx to Aen£of ((Ju Ss xvriav 

H7TloSlVy\Tu}V $XX.pv %££«? 3\j<5apu)V 

Kse* 7roA.11 >u%\<^i>o-56 <ro&ei$ iv&csrrpvxov xiy\qv 
Ufterspx xs^aM" Sypov epsHr&ftivq. 

M.upofttvqv A >, ^<J>^A.^)0■oe• r* J'ujj Spoaripvig arro jrjjyjjo-, 
Ase'/cpua /Aiyvvftivwv iri7TTi x*t« o-T0f/.zT:vv. 

EiTTi £' avEjpOiissvoi, tji/05 oui'Exa Sxzpvx Ket^stg' 
A'.iSiot. fiy /it \i7TYn' £0-ts yap opx.x7rxTxt. 

2 The water is so clear around the island, that the rocks 
are seen beneath to a very great depth, and, as we entered 
the harbour, they appeared to us so near the surface, that it 
seemed impossible we should not strike on them. There is 
no necessity, of course, for heaving the lead, and the negro 
pilot, looking down at the rocks from the bow of the ship, 
takes her through this difficult navigation, with a skill and 
confidence which seem to astonish some of the oldest sai- 
lors. 



The sun has now profusely given 
The flashes of a noontide neaven, 
And, as the wave reflects his beams, 
Another heaven its surface seems ! 
Blue light and clouds of silvery tears 

So pictur'd o'er the waters lie, 
That every languid bark appears 

To float along a burning sky ! 

Oh ! for the boat the angel gave 1 

To him, who, in his heaven-ward flight. 
Sail'd o'er the sun's ethereal wave, 

To planet-isles of odorous light ! 
Sweet Venus, what a clime he found 
Within thy orb's ambrosial round ! 2 
There spring the breezes, rich and warm, 

That pant around thy twilight car; 
There angels dwell, so pure of form, 

That each appears a living star ! 3 
These are the sprites, oh radiant queen ! 

Thou send'st so often to the bed 
Of her I love, with spell unseen, 

Thy planet's brightening balm tc shed ; 
To make the eye's enchantment clearer, 

To give the cneek one rose-bud more, 
And bid that flushing lip be dearer, 

Which had been, oh ! too dear before ! 
But, whither means the muse to roam ? 
'Tis time to call the wanderer home. 
Who could have ever thought to search her 
Up in the clouds with Father Kircher ? 
So, health and love to all your mansion ! 

Long may the bowl that pleasures bloom m t 
The flow of heart, the soul's expansion, 

Mirth, and song, your board illumine ! 

Fare you well — remember too, 

When cups are flowing to the brim, 

That here is one who drinks to you, 
And, oh ! as warmly drink to him. 



THE RUNG. 



TO- 

No— Lady ! Lady 



1801. 



keep the ring ; 
Oh ! think how many a future year, 
Of pracid smile and downy wing, 
May sleep within its holy sphere i 

Do not disturb their tranquil dream, 

Though love hath ne'er the mystery warm'd, 



1 In Kircher's "Extatic .Tou-ney to Heaven," Cosmiel, 
the genius of the world, gives Theodidactus a boat of As- 
bestos, with which he embarks into the regions of the sun. 
"Vides (says Cosmiel) hanc asbestinam naviculam commo- 
ditati tuoe prasparata.n." Itinerar. 1. Dial. 1. Cap. 5. There 
are some very strange fancies in this work of Kircher. 

2 When the Genius of the world and his fellow-traveller 
arrive at the planet Venus, they find an island of loveliness 
full of odours and intelligences, where angels preside, who 
shed the cosmetic influence of this planet over the earth : 
such being, according to astrologers, the "vis influxiva" of 
Venus. When they are in this part of the heavens, a ca^ir 
istical question occurs to Theodidactus, and he aska 
" Whether baptism may be performed with the waters of 
Venus?" — "An aquis globi Veneris baptismus institui pus 
sit?" to which the Genius answers, "Certainly." 

3 This idea is father Kircher's. "Tot animatos sole* 
dixisses." Itinerar. i. Dial. Cap. 5 



110 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



i T et heav'n will shed a soothing beam, 
To bless the bond itself hath form'd. 

But then, that eye, that burning eye ! 

Oh ! it doth ask, with magic power, 
If heaven can ever bless the tie, 

Where love inwreaths no genial flower ! 

Away, away, bewildering look ! 

Or all the boast of Virtue 's o'er ; 
Go — hie thee to the sage's book, 

And leatai from him to feel no more ! 

I cannot warn thee ! every touch, 
That brings my pulses close to thine, 

Tells me I want thy aid as much, 
Oh ! quite as much, as thou dost mine ! 

Yet stay, dear love — one effort yet— 
A moment turn those eyes away, 

And let me, if I can, forget 
The light that leads my soul astray ! 

Thou say'st, that we were born to meet, 
That our hearts bear one common seal, — 

Oh, Lady ! think, how man's deceit 
Can seem to sigh and feign to feel ! 

When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought, 
Like day-beams through the morning air, 

Hath gradual stole, and I have caught 
The feeling ere it kindled there: 

The sympathy I then betray' d, 
Perhaps was but the child of art ; 

The guile of one, who long hath play'd 
With all these wily nets of heart. 

Oh ! thou hast not my virgin vow ! 

'.'hough ;ew the years I yet have told, 
Canst thou believe I lived till now, 

With loveless heart jr senses cold ? 

No — many a throb of bliss and pain, 
For many a maid, my soul hath prov'd ; 

With some I wanton'd wild and van*, 
While some T truly, dearly lov'd ! 

The cheek to thine I fondly lay, 
To theirs hath been as fondly laid ; 

The words to thee I warmly say, 
To them have been as warmly said. 

Then, scorn at once a languid heart, 
Which long hath lost its early spring; 

Think of the pure, bright soul thou art, 
Ar.d — keep the ring, oh ! keep the ring. 

Enough — now, turn thine eyes again; 

What, stdl that look, and still that sigh ! 
Dost thou not feel my counsel then? 

Oh ! no, beloved ! — nor do I. 

While thus to mine thy bosom lies, 

While thus our breaths commingling glow, 

'Twere more than woman to be wise, 
'Twere more than man to wish thee so ! 

Did we not love so true, so dear, 
This lapse could never be forgiven ; 

But hearts so fond and lips so near — 
Give me the ring, and now — Oh heaven ! 



TO- 



on SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A 
RICH GIRDLE. 

MAPrAPITAl AHAOTEI AAKPTfiN POON. 
Ap. Nicephor. in Oneirocritico. 

Put off the vestal veil, nor, oh ! 

Let weeping angels view it ; 
Your cheeks belie its virgin snow, 

And blush repenting through it. 

Put off the fatal zone you wear ; 

The lucid pearls around it 
Are tears, that fell from Virtue there, 

The hour that Love unbound it. 



THE RESEMBLANCE. 



-vo cercand' io 



Donna, quant' e possibile, in altrui 
La desiata vostra forma vera. 

Petrarc. Sonett. 14 

Yes, if 'twere any common love, 

That led my pliant heart astray, 
I grant, there 's not a power above 

Could wipe the faithless crime away ! 

But, 'twas my doom to err with one 

In every look so like to thee, 
That, oh ! beneath the blessed sun, 

So fair there are but thou and she ! 

Whate'er may be her angel birth, 
She was thy lovely perfect twin, 

And wore the only shape on earth, 

That could have charm'd my soul to sin ! 

Your eyes ! — the eyes of languid doves 
Were never half so like each other ! 

The glances of the baby loves 
Resemble less their warm-ey'd mother ! 

Her lip ! — oh, call me not false hearted, 

When such a lip I fondly prest ; 
'Twas Love some melting cherry parted, 

Gave thee one half and her the rest ! 

And when, with all thy murmuring tone, 
They sued, half open, to be kiss'd, 

I could as soon resist thine own — 

And them, heaven knows ! I ne'er resist 

Then, scorn me not, though false I be, 
'Twas love that wak'd the dear excess ; 

My heart had been more true to thee, 
Had mine eye priz'd thy beauty less i 



TO 



When I lov'd you, I can't but allow 
I had many an exquisite minute ; 

But the scorn that I feel for you now 
Hath even more luxury in it ! 



. 



EPISTLES, 


ODES, ETC. HI 


Thus, whether we're on or we'rw off, 


Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure, 


Some witchery seems to await you ; 


Nor left one honey drop to shed 


To love you is pleasant enough, 


Round misery's brim. 


And, oh ! 'tis delicious to hate you ! 


Yes — he can smile serene at death : 




Kind heaven ! do thou but chase the weeping 
Of friends who love him ; 




FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER. 1 


Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping 




Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath 


Fill high the cup with liquid flame, 


No more shall move him. 


.,* And speak my Heliodora's name ! 




Repeat its magic o'er and o'er, 






And let the sound my lips adore, 




Sweeten the breeze, and mingling swim 


ODES TO NEA; 


On every bowl's voluptuous brim ! 


WRITTEN AT BERMUDA. 


Give me the wreath that withers there ; 




It was but last delicious night 
It hung upon her wavy hair, 

And caught her eyes' reflected light ! 


NEA TTPANNEI. 

Euripid. Medea, v. 967 




Oh ! haste, and twine it round my brow 


Nay, tempt me not to love again, 


It breathes of Heliodora now ! 


There was a time when love was sweet ; 




Dear Nea ! had I known thee then, 


The loving rose-bud drops a tear, 


Our souls had not been slow to meet ! 


To see the nymph no longer here, 


But, oh ! this weary heart hath run, 


No longer, where she used to lie, 


So many a time, the rounds of pain, 


Close to my heart's devoted sigh ! 


Not e'en for thee, thou lovely one ! 





Would I endure such pangs again. 




If there be climes, where never yet 


LINES, 


The print of Beauty's foot was set, 


WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA. 


Where man may pass his lovcler--* nights, 


That sky of clouds is not the sky 


Unfever'd by her false delights, 


To light a lover to the pillow 


T.iither my wounded soul would fly, 


Of her he loves — 


Where rosy cheek or radiant eye 


The swell of yonder foaming billow 


Should bring no more their bliss, their pain, 


Resembles not the happy sigh 


Or fetter me to earth again ! 


That rapture moves. 


Dear absent girl, whose eyes of light, 




Though little priz'd when all my own, 


Yet do I feel more tranquil now 


Now float before me, soft and bright 


Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean, 


As when they first enamouring shone ! 


In this dark hour, 


How many hours of idle waste, j 


Than when, in transport's young emotion, 


Within those witching arms embraced, 


I've stol'n, beneath the evening star, 


Unmindful of the fleeting day, 


To Julia's bower. 


Have I dissolv'd life's dream away ! 


Oh ! there 's a holy calm profound 


bloom of time profusely shed ! 


In awe like this, that ne'er was given 


moments ! simply, vainly fled, 


To rapture's thrill ; 


Yet sweetly too — for love perfum'd 


'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, 


The flame which thus my life consum'd; 


And the soul, listening to the sound, 


And brilliant was the chain of flowers, 


Lies mute and still ! 


In which he led my victim hours ! 


'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh, 


Say, Nea, dear ! could'st thou, like her, 


Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow 


When warm to feel and quick to err, 


In the cold deep, 


Of loving fond, of roving fonder, 


Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow 


My thoughtless soul might wish to wander 


No more shall wake the heart or eye, 


Could'st thou, like her, the wish reclaim, 


But all must sleep ! 


Endearing still, reproaching never. 




Till all my heart should burn with shame, 


Well ! — there are some, thou stormy bed, 


And be thine own, more fix'd than ever ? 


To whom thy sleep would be a treasure ! 


No, no — on earth there's only one 


Oh most to him, 


Could bind such faithless folly fast: 
And sure on earth 'tis I alone 




1 Ey%«i, X*l TTxKlV HTTS, 5T«\IV, ttosXiv, 'HktoSuipOf 
E»5TE, <ruv axpifTui to yKvxv ftio—y' ovsfix. 


Could make such virtue false at last! 


Ka> ftot tov &j>sxdsvTx ^upoij *xt %3-ifov £Ovt«, 


Nea ! the heart which she forsook. 


Mvx/uotuvov xsii/*;, xfc^iTid-et (rrKpxvov' 


For thee were but a worthless shrine- 


Actxput* QiKsaxo-TOv iSom po£ov, OUVSXCC X.HVXV 
A/v^oai x'ou X0A.5T01J >)/«£TSpo*£ WTOQX. 


Go, lovely girl, that angel look 


Brunck. Analect. torn. i. p. 28. 


Must thrill a soul more pure than mixe 



112 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Oh ! thou shalt be all else to me, 
That heart can feel or tongue can feign; 

Til praise, admire, and worship thee, 
But must not, dare not, love again. 



TALE ITER OMNE CAVE. 

Propert. JAb. iv. Eleg. 8 

I pray you, let us roam no more 
Along that wild and lonely shore, 

Where late we thoughtless stray'd ; 
'Twas not for us, whom heaven intends 
To be no more than simple friends, 

Such lonely walks were made. 

That little bay, where, winding in 
From ocean's rude and angry din, 

(As lovers steal to bliss,) 
The billows kiss the shore, and then 
Flow calmly to the deep again, 

As though they did not kiss ! 

Remember, o'er its circling flood 

In what a dangerous dream we stood— 

The silent sea before us, 
Around us, all the gloom of grove, 
Tlrat e'er was spread for guilt or love, 

No eye but nature's o'er us ! 

I saw you blush, you felt me tremble, 
In vain would formal art dissemble 

All that we wish'd and thought ; — 
'Twas more than tongue could dare reveal, 
'Twas more than virtue ought to feel, 

But all that passion ought ! 

I stoop'd to cull, with faltering hand, 
A shell that on the golden sand 

Before us faintly gleam'd ; 
I rais'd it to your lips of dew, 
You kiss'd the shell, I kiss'd it too- 
Good heaven, how sweet it seem'd ! 
O, trust me, 'twas a place, an hour, 
The worst that e'er temptation's power 

Could tangle me or you in ! 
Sweet Nea ! let us roam no more 
Along that wild and lonely shore- 
Such walks will be our ruin ! 



You read it in my languid eyes, 

And there alone should love be read; 

You hear me say it all in sighs, 

And thus alone should love be said. 

Then dread no more ; I will not speak; 

Although my heart to anguish thrill, 
I'll spare the burning of your cheek, 

And look it all in silence still ! 

Heard you the wish I dar'd to name, 
To murmur on that luckless night, 

When passion broke the bonds of shame, 
And love grew madness in your sight ? 

Divinely through the graceful dance 
You seem'd to float in silent song, 



Bending to earth that beamy glance, 

As if to light your steps along ! 
Oh ! how could others dare to touch 

That hallow'd form with hand so free, 
When but to look was bliss too much, 

Too rare for all but heaven and me ! 

With smiling eyes, that little thought 
How fatal were the beams they threw, 

My trembling hands you lightly caught, 
And round me, like a spirit, flew. 

Heedless of all, I wildly turn'd, 
My soul forgot — nor, oh ! condemn, 

That when such eyes before me burn'd 
My soul forgot all eyes but them ! 

I dar'd to speak in sobs of bliss, 
Rapture of every thought bereft me, 

I would have clasp'd you — oh, even this !- 
But, with a bound, you blushing left me. 

Forget, forget that night's offence, 

Forgive it, if, alas ! you can ; 
'Twas love, 'twas passion — soul and sense— 

'Twas all the best and worst of man ! 

That moment, did the mingled eyes 
Of heaven and earth my madness view, 

I should have seen, through earth and skies, 
But you alone, but only you ! 

Did not a frown from you reprove, 
Myriads of eyes to me were none ; 

I should have — oh, my only love ! 

My life! what should I not have done ! 



A DREAM OF ANTIQUITY 

I just had turn'd the classic page, 

And trac'd that happy period over, 
When love could warm the proudest sage, 

And wisdom grace the tenderest lover ! 
Before I laid me down to" sleep, 

Upon the bank awhile I stood, 
And saw the vestal planet weep 

Her tears of light on Ariel's flood. 

My heart was full of Fancy's dream, 
And, as I watch'd the playful stream, 
Entangling in its net of smiles 
So fair a group of elfin isles, 
I felt as if the scenery there 

Were lighted by a Grecian sky — 
As if I breath'd the blissful air 

That yet was warm with Sappho's sigh ■ 

And now the downy hand of rest 
Her signet on my eyes imprest, 
And still the bright and balmy spell 
Like star-dew, o'er my fancy fell ! 
I thought that, all enrapt, I stray d 
Through that serene luxurious shade, 1 



1 Gassendi thinks thai the gardens, which Pausanias men- 
tions, in his first Book, were those of Epicures; and Stuart 
says, in his Antiquities of Athens, " Near this convent (the 
convent of Hagios Assomatos) is the place called at present 
Kepoi, or the Gardens ; and Ampelos Kepos, or the Vino- 
yard Garden ; these were probably the gardens which Pau 
sanias visited." Chap. ii. Vol. I. 



I 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



Where Epicurus taught the Loves 
To polish virtue's native brightness, 

Just as the beak of playful doves 

Can give to pearls a smoother whiteness I 1 

'Twas one of those delicious nights 

So common in the climes of Greece, 
When day withdraws but half its lights, 

And all is moonshine, balm, and peace ! 
And thou wert there, my own belov'd ! 
And dearly by thy side I rov'd 
Through many a temple's reverend gloom, 
And many a bower's seductive bloom, 
Where beauty blush'd and wisdom taught, 
Where lovers sigh'd and sages thought, 
Where hearts might feel or heads discern, 

And all was form'd to sooth or move, 
To make the dullest love to learn, 

To make the coldest learn to love ! 

And now the fairy pathway seem'd 

To lead us through enchanted ground, 
Where all that bard has ever dream'd 

Of love or luxury bloom'd around ! 
Oh ! 'twas a bright bewildering scene— 
Along the alley's deepening green, 
Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers, 
And scented and illum'd the bowers, 
Seem'd, as to him, who darkling roves 
Amid the lone Hercynian groves, 
Appear the countless birds of light, 
That sparkle in the leaves at night, 
And from their wings diffuse a ray 
Along the traveller's weary way ! 2 
'Twas light of that mysterious kind, 

Through which the soul is doom'd to roam, 
When it has left this world behind, * 

And gone to seek its heavenly home ! 
And, Nea, thou didst look and move, 

Like any blooming soul of bliss, 
That wanders to its home above 

Through mild and shadowy light like this ! 

But now, methought, we stole along 

Through halls of more voluptuous glory 
Than ever liv'd in Teian song, 

Or wanton'd in Milesian story ! 3 
And nymphs were there, whose very eyes 
Seem'd almost to exhale in sighs ; 
Whose every little ringlet thrill'd, 
As if with soul and passion hll'd ! 
Some flew, with amber cups, around, 

Shedding the flowery wines of Crete, 4 
And, as they pass'd with youthful bound, 

The onyx shone beneath their feet ! s 



1 Thi* method of polishing pearls, by leaving them awhile 
to be p.ayed with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful 
Caidanus, de Remm Variotat. Lib. vii. cap. 34. 

2 In Hercynio Germanise sallu inusitata genera alitum 
accepimus, quarum pluma;, ignium modo, colluceant nocti- 
Dus. Plin. Lib. x. cap. 47. 

3 The Milesiacs, or Milesian Fables, had their origin in 
Milatus, a luxurious town oflonia. Aristides was the most 
telebrated author of these, licentious fictions. .See Plutarch 
(in Crasso) who calls them x-aokxttx i6i£\ix. 

4 Some of the Cretan wines, which Athenaeus calls oivoj 
*v3-o<r/it*;, from their fragrancy resembling that of the 
finest tlowers. Barry on Wines, ch;ip. vii. 

5 I> appears, that in very splendid mansions the floor or 
pavement was frequently of onyx. Thus Martial : " Calca- 
tusquo tuo sub pede lucet onyx." Epig. 50. Lib. xii. 



While others, waving arms of snow 

Entwin'd by snakes of buiaish'd gold, 1 
And showing limbs, as loth to show, 

Through many a thin Tarentian fold, 2 
Glided along the festal ring 
With vases, all respiring spring, 
Where roses lay, in langour breathing, 
And the young bee-grape, 3 round them wreathing. 
Hung on their blushes warm and meek, 
Like curls upon a rosy cheek ! 
Oh, Nea ! why did morning break 

The spell that so divinely bound me? 
Why did I wake ! how could I wake 

With thee my own and heaven around me ? 



Well — peace to thy heart, though another's it be, 
And health to thy cheek, though it bloom not for me . 
To-morrow, I sail for those cinnamon groves, 
Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves, 
And, far from thine eye, oh ! perhaps, I may yet 
Its seduction forgive and its splendour forget ! 
Farewell to Bermuda/ and long may the bloom 
Of the lemon and myrtle its vallies perfume ; 
May spring to eternity hallow the shade, 
Wliere Ariel has warbled and Waller 6 has stray'd! 
And thou — when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam 
Through the lime-cover'd alley that leads to thy home, 
Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done, 
And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun, 
I have led thee along, and have told by the way 
What my heart all the night had been burning to say — 
Oh ! think of the past — give a sigh to those times, 
And a blessing for me to that alley of limes ! 



If I were yonder wave, my dear, 
And thou the isle it clasps around, 

I would not let a foot come near 
My land of bliss, my fairy ground ! 



1 Bracelets of this shape were a favourite ornament among 
the women of antiquity. 0» Ezr<x*p57-<o* o^ijxai xi xpvcrxi 
7rtSxi &xiSog xxi ApKrrxyopxg xxi Aaj^oj <$xp/xxx.ot. 
Philostrat. Epist. xl. Lucian too tells of the 6pce%jo4o-i Spx- 
xoi/res. See his Amores, where he describes the dressing- 
room of a Grecian lady, and we find the " silver vase," the 
rouge, the tooth-powder, and all the " mystic order" of a 
modern toilet. 

2 TxpxvriviSiov, SixCpxveg tvSvfix, aivofixo-fiivov ajro 
t>)5 TxpxvriVMV %p>j<r£*>s f-xt Tpu;>)s. — Pollux. 

3 Apiana, mentioned by Pliny, Lib. xiv. and "now called 
the Muscatell (a muscarum telish") says Pancirollus, Book 
i. Sect. 1. Chap. 17. 

4 The inhabitants pronounce he name as if it Were writ- 
ten Bermooda. See the commentators on the words " still- 
vex'd Bermoothes," in the Tempest. I wonder it did not 
occur to some of those all-reading gentlemen that, possibly, 
the discoverer of this " island of hogs and devils" might 
have been no less a personage than the great John Bermu- 
dez, who, about the same period, (the beginning of the six- 
teenth century,) was sent Patriarch of the Latin Cnurch to 
Ethiopia, and has left us most wonderful stories of the 
Amazons and the Griffins, which he encountered. Travels 
of the Jesuits, Vol. I. I am afraid, however, it would 
take the Patriarch rather too much out of his way. 

5 Johnson does not think that Waller was ever at Bermu 
da; but the "Account of the European Settlements in 
America," affirms it confidently. (Vol. II.) ( I mention this 
work, however, less for its authority, than for the pleasure I 
feel in quoting an unacknowledged production of he great 
Edmund Burke. 



114 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



If I were yonder couch of gold, 
And thou the pearl within it plac'd, 

I would not let an eye behold 

The sacred gem my arms embrac d ! 

If I were yonder orange-tree, 

And thou the blossom blooming there, 
I would no* yield a breath of thee, 

To scent the most imploring air ! 

Oh ! bend not o'er the water's brink, 
Give not the wave that rosy sigh, 

Nor let its burning mirror drink 
The soft reflection of thine eye. 

That glossy hair, that glowing cheek, 
Upon the billows pour their beam 

So warmly, that my soul could seek 
Its Nea in the painted stream. 

The painted stream my chilly grave 
And nuptial bed at once may be, 

I'll wed thee in that mimic wave, 
And die upon the shade of thee ! 

Behold the leafy mangrove, bending 
O'er the waters blue and bright, 

Like Nea's silky lashes, lending 
Shadow to her eyes of light ■ 

Oh, my beloved ! where'er I turn, 
Some trace of thee enchants mine e) r es, 

In every star thy glances burn, 
Thy blush on every flowret lies. 

But then thy breath ! — not all the fire, 
That lights the lone Semenda's 1 death 

In eastern climes could e'er respire 
An odour like thy dulcet breath ! 

I pray thee, on those lips of thine 

To wear this rosy leaf for me, 
And breathe of something not divine, 

Since nothing human breathes of thee ! 

All other charms of thine I meet 

In nature, but thy sigh alone ; 
Then take, oh ! take, though not so sweet, 

The breath of roses for thine own ! 

So, while I walk the flowery grove, 
The bud that gives, through morning dew, 

The lustre of the lips I love, 
May seem to give their perfume too ! 



ON SEEING AN INFANT IN NEA'S ARMS. 

The first ambrosial child of bliss, 

That Psyche to her bosom prest, 
Was not a brighter babe than this, 

Nor blush'd upon a lovelier breast ! 
His little snow-white fingers, straying 

Along her lips' luxuriant flower, 
Look'd like a flight of ring-doves playing, 

Silvery through a roseate bower ! 
And when, to shade the playful boy, 

Her dark hair fell, in mazes bright, 



Oh ! 'twas a type of stolen joy, 
'Twas love beneath the veil of night ! 

Soft as she smil'd, he smil'd again ; 
They seem'd so kindred in their charms, 

That one might think, the babe had then 
Just budded in her blooming arms ! 



1 Refcrunt tamen quidain in interiore India avem esse, 
nomine Semendam, etc. Cardan. 10 de Subtilita*. Caesar 
Sr.aliger seems to think Semenda but another name for the 
Phcenix. Exercitat. 233. 



THE SNOW SPIRIT. 

Tu potes insulitas, Cynthia, ferre nives ? 

Propert Lib. i. Eleg. 8. 

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep 

An island of lovener charms ; 
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, 

Like Hebe in Hercules' arms ! 
The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye, 

Their melody balm to the ear ; 
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, 

And the Snow-Spirit never comes here ! 
The down from his wing is as white as the pearl 

Thy lips for their cabinet stole, 
And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl, 

As a murmur of thine on the soul ! 
Oh, fly to the clime, where he pillows the death, 

As he cradles the birth of the year ; 
Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath, 

But the Snow- Spirit cannot come here ! 

How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale, 

And brightening the bosom of morn, 
He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil 

O'er the brow of each virginal thorn ! 
Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts, 

Is a veil of a vestal severe ; 
No, no, — thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts, 

Should the Snow-Spirit ever come here ! 

But fly to his region — lay open thy zone, 

And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim, 
To think that a bosom, as white as his own, 

Should not melt in the day-beam like him ! 
Oh ! lovely the print of those delicate feet 

O'er his luminous path will appear — 
Fly ! my beloved ! this island is sweet, 

But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here ! 



Evt«u5o6 Ss 



•.SoipftHTTt&t vffiiv. xcti o, ri ftev ovo/xx t*i v>j<ro» 
*• %pu<r>j $' «v rpoj ye ipov ovo J c/.a£ojTO. 

Philostrat. Icon. 17. Lib. 2. 



I stole along the flowery bank, 
While many a bending sea-grape 1 drank 
The sprinkle of the feathery oar 
That wing'd me round this fairy shore ! 
'Twas noon ; and every orange bud 
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood, 
Faint as the lids of maiden eyes 
Beneath a lover's burning sighs ! 
Oh for a naiad's sparry bower, 
To shade me in that glowing hour ! 

A little dove, of milky hue, 
Before me from a plantain flew, 



1 The sea-side or mangrov6 grape, a native of the Wea» 
| Indies. 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



115 



And, light, along the water's brim, 

1 steered my gentle bark by him ; 

For Fancy told me, Love had sent 

This snowy bird of blandishment, 

To lead me where my soul should meet— 

I knew not what, but something sweet . 

Blest be the little pilot dove ! 
He had indeed been sent by Love, 
To guide me to a scene so dear, 
As Fate allows but seldom here : 
One of those rare and brilliant hours, 
Which, like the aloe's 1 lingering flowers, 
May blossom to the eye of man 
But once in all his weary span ! 

Just where the margin's opening shade 

A vista from the waters made, 

My bird repo's'd his silver plume 

Upon a rich banana's bloom. 

Oh, vision bright ! oh, spirit fair ! 

What spell, what magic rais'd her there ? 

'Twas Nea ! slumbering calm and mild, 

And bloomy as the dimpled child 

Whose spirit in elysium keeps 

Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps ! 

The broad banana's green embrace 
Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace ; 
One little beam alone could win 
The leaves to let it wander in, 
And, stealing over all her charms, 
From lip to cheek, from neck to arms, 
It glanc'd around a fiery kiss, 
All trembling, as it went, with bliss ! 

Her eyelid's black and silken fringe 
Lay on her cheek, of vermil tinge, 
Like the first ebon cloud, that closes 
Dark on evening's heaven of roses ! 
Her glances, though in slumber hid, 
Seem'd glowing through their ivory lid, 
And o'er her lip's reflecting dew 
A soft and liquid lustre threw, 
Such as, declining dim and faint, 
The lamp of some beloved saint 
Doth shed upon a flowery wreath, 
Which pious hands have hung beneath. 
Was ever witchery half so sweet ! 
Think, think how all my pulses beat, 
As o'er the rustling bank I stole — 
Oh ! you, that know the lover's soul, 
It is for you to dream the bliss, 
The tremblings of an hour like this ! 



ON THE LOSS OF A LETTER INTENDED 

FOR NEA. 

Oh ! it was fill'd with words of flame, 

With all the wishes wild and dear, 
Which love may write, but dares not name, 

Which woman reads, but must not hear ! 

1 The Agave. I know that this is an erroneous idea, but 
His quite true enough for poetry. Plato, I think, allows a 
poet to be "three removes from truth;" t£»t«to; outo 
r»j5 uKn$si»s 



Of many a nightly dream it told, 

When all that chills the heart by day, 
The worldly doubt, the caution cold, 

In Fancy's fire dissolve away ! 
When soul and soul divinely meet, 

Free from the senses' guilty shame, 
And mingle in a sigh so sweet, 

As virtue's self would blush to blame ! 

How could he lose such tender words ? 

Words ! that of themselves should spring 
To Nea's ear, like panting birds, 

With heart and soul upon their wing ! 
Oh ! fancy what they dar'd to speak ; 

Think all a virgin's shame can dread, 
Nor pause until thy conscious cheek 

Shall burn with thinking all they said ! 

And I shall feign, shall fancy, too, 

Some dear reply thou might'st have given 
Shall make that lip distil its dew 

In promise bland and hopes of heaven ! 
Shall think it tells of future days, 

When the averted cheek will turn, 
When eye with eye shall mingle rays, 

And lip to lip shall closely burn ! — 

Ah ! if this flattery is not thine, 
If colder hope thy answer brings, 

I'll wish thy words were lost like mine, 
Since I can dream such dearer things 



I found her not — the chamber seem'd 

Like some divinely haunted place, 
Where fairy forms had lately beam'd 

And left behind their odorous trace ! 
It felt, as if her lips had shed 
A sigh around her, ere she fled, 
Which hung, as on a melting lute, 
When all the silver chords are mute, 
There lingers still a trembling breath 
After the note's luxurious death, 
A shade of song, a spirit air 
Of melodies which had been there ! 
I saw the web, which all the day, 

Had floated o'er her cheek of rose ; 
I saw the couch, where late she lay 

In languor of divine repose ! 
And I could trace the hallow'd print 

Her limbs had left, as pure and warm 
As if 'twere done in rapture's mint, 

And love himself had stamp'd tha form 
Oh, Nea ! Nea ! where wert thou ? 
• In pity fly not thus from me ; 
Thou art my life, my essence now, 

And my soul dies of wanting thee ! 



A KISS A V ANTIQUE. 

Behold, my love, the curious gem 
Within this simple ring of gold ; 

'Tis hallow'd by the touch of ihem 
Who liv'd in classic hours of old 



116 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps, 

Upon her hand this gern display'd, 
Nor thought that time's eternal lapse 

Should see it grace a lovelier maid ! 
Look, darling, what a sweet design ! 

The more we gaze, it charms the more : 
Come, — closer bring that cheek to mine, 

And trace with me its beauties o'er. 

Thou see'st, it is a simple youth 

By some enamour'd nymph embrac'd — 

Look, Nea, love ! and say, in sooth, 
Is not her hand most dearly plac'd I 

Upon his curled head behind 
It seems in careless play to lie, 1 

Yet presses gently, half inclin'd 
To bring his lip of nectar nigh ! 

Oh happy maid ! too happy boy ! 

The one so fond and faintly loath, 
The other yielding slow to joy — 

Oh, rare indeed, but blissful both ! 

Imagine, love, that I am he, 
And just as warm as he is chilling ; 

Imagine, too, that thou art she, 
But quite as cold as she is willing : 

So may we try the graceful way 
In which their gentle arms are twin'd, 

And thus, like her, my hand I lay 
Upon thy wreathed hair behind : 

And thus I feel thee breathing sweet, 
As slow to mine thy head I move ; 

And thus our lips together meet, 
And — thus I kiss thee — oh, my love ! 



• • • •X.(/3«vOTto etxxTSVj on a,7raKXv/xevov ev$pxtvet. 
Aristot. Rhetor. Lib. in. Cap. 4. 
There 's not a look, a word of thine 

My soul hath e'er forgot ;. 
Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, 
Nor giv'n thy locks one graceful twine, 

Which I remember not ! 
There never yet a murmur fell 

From that beguiling tongue, 
Which did not, with a lingering spell, 
Upon my charmed senses dwell, 

Like something heaven had sung ! 
Ah ! that I could, at once, forget 

All, all that haunts me so — 
And yet, thou witching girl ! — and yet, 
To die were sweeter, than to let 

The lov'd remembrance go ! 
No ; if this slighted heart must see 

Its faithful pulse decay, 
Oh ! let it die, remembering thee, 
And, like the burnt aroma, be 

Consum'd in sweets away ! 



I Somewhat like the symplegma of Cupid and Psyche 
at Florence, in which the position of Psyche's hand is 
finely expressive of affection. See the Museum Florenti- 
imm, Tom. ii. Tab. 43, 44. I know of very few subjects in 
which poetry could be more interestingly employed, than in 
3Iustrating some of the ancient statues and gems. 



EPISTLE V. 
TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. 

FROM BERMUDA. 1 

March. 

" The daylight is gone — but, before we depart, 
One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart, 
To the kindest, the dearest — oh ! judge by the tear, 
That I shed while I name him, how kind and how 
dear!" 

'Twas thus, by the shade of a calabash-tree, 
With a few who could feel and remember like me, 
The charm, that to sweeten my goblet I threw, 
Was a tear to the past and a blessing on you ! 

Oh ! say, do you thus, in the luminous hour 
Of wine and of wit, when the heart is in flower, 
And shoots from the lip, under Bacchus's dew, 
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new ! 
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim 
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him, 
Who is lonely and sad in these vallies so fair, 
And would pine in elysium, if friends were not there 



1 Pinkerton has said that " a good history and description 
of the Bermudas might afford a pleasing aiMiiion to the 
geographical library;" but there certainly are not materials 
tor such a work. The island, since the time of its disco- 
very, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people 
have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there 
is but little which the historian could amplify into impor- 
tance; and, with respect to the natural productions of the 
country, the few which the inhabitants can be induced to 
cultivate are so common in the West Indies, that they have 
been described by every naturalist, who has written any 
account of those islands. 

It is often asserted by the trans-atl antic politicians, that 
this little colony deserves more attention from the mother- 
country than it receives ; and it certainly possesses advan- 
tages of situation, to which we should not belong insensible, 
if it were once in the hands of an enemy. I was told by a 
celebrated friend of Washington, at New- York, that they 
had formed a plan for its capture, towards the conclusion of 
the American War; " with the intention (as he expressed 
himself,) of making it a nest of hornets for the annoyance 
of British trade in that part of the world." And there is 
no doubt, it lies so fairly in the track to the West Indies 
that an enemy might with ease convert it into a very haras- 
sing impediment. 

The plan of Bishop Berkeley for a college at Bermuda, 
where American savages might be converted and educatedj 
though concurred in by the government of the day, was a 
wild and useless speculation. Mr. Hamilton, who was go- 
vernor of the island some years since, proposed, if I mistake 
not, the establishment of a marine academy for the instruc- 
tion of ;hose children of West Indians, who might be in- 
tended for any nautical employment. This was a more 
rational idea, and for something of this nature the island is 
admirably calculated. But the plan should be much more 
extensive, and embrace a general system of education, 
which would entirely remove the alternative, in which the 
colonists are involved at present, of either sending their sons 
to England for instruction, or entrusting them to colleges in 
the States of America, where idea3 by no means favour- 
able to Great Britain, are very sedulously inculcated. 

The women of Bermuda, though not generally handsome, 
have an affectionate languor in their look and manner, 
which is always interesting. What the French imply by 
their epithet aimante seems very much the character of the 
young Bermudian girls — that predisposition to loving, which, 
without being awakened by any particular object, diffuses 
itself through the general manner in a tone of tenderness 
that never fails to fascinate. The men of the island, I con 
fess, are not very civilized; and the old philosopher, why 
imagined that, after this life, men would be changed into 
mules, and women into turtle-doves, would find the meia 
mo r phosis in some degree anticipated at Bermuda. 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



117 



[ ast night, when we came from the calabash-tree, 
Wnen my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free, 
The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day, 
Put the magical springs of my fancy in play ; 
And oh ! — such a vision as haunted me then 
I could slumber for ages to witness again ! 
The many I like, and the few I adore, 
The friends, who were dear and beloved before, 
But never till now so beloved and dear, 
At the call of my fancy surrounded me here ! 
Soon, soon did the flattering spell of their smile 
To a paradise brighten the blest little isle ; 
Serener the wave, as they look'd on it, flow'd, 
And warmer the rose, as they gather'd it, glow'd ! 
Not the vallies Heraean (though water'd by rills 
Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills, 1 
Where the song of the shepherd, primaeval and wild, 
Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,) 
Could display such a bloom of delight, as was given 
By the magic of love to this miniature heaven ! 

Oh, magic of love ! unembellish'd by you, 

Has the garden a blush or the herbage a hue ? 

Or blooms there a prospect in nature or art, 

Like the vista that shines through the eye to the heart ? 

Alas ! that a vision so happy should fade ! 
That, when morning around me in brilliancy play'd, 
The rose and the stream I had thought of at night 
Should still be before me, unfadingly bright ; 
While the friends, who had seem'd to hang over the 

stream, 
And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream ! 

But see, through the harbour, in floating array, 
The bark that must carry these pages away, 2 . 
Impatiently flutters her wings to the wind, 
And will soon leave the bowers of Ariel behind! 
What billows, what gales is she fated to prove, 
Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love ! 
Yet pleasant the swell of those billows would be, 
And the sound of those gales would be music to me ! 
Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew, 
Nut the silvery lapse of the summer-eve dew, 
Were as sweet as the breeze, or as bright as the foam 
Of the wave, that would carry your wanderer home ! 



LOVE AND REASON. 

Quand l'homme commence a raisonner, il cesse de sentir. 
J. .7. Rousseau. 3 
'Twas in the summer-time so sweet, 

When hearts and flowers are both in season, 
That — who, of all the world, should meet, 
One early dawn, but Love and Reason ! 

Love told his dream of yester-night, 
While Reason talk'd about the weather; 

The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright, 
And on they took their way together. 



1 Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first in- 
,»witor of bucolic poc!r>, was nursed by the nymphs. — See 
tL s lively description of these mountains in Diodorus Sicu- 
Uls, Lib iv. rifsna yxf o^jj x«Tce t>|i/ Xix.sa.ixv mttiv, a, 
^<*o» x*XVfi x v. K. 



2 A ahio, rcary ^> sail for England. 

3 Quoted bOhieArbete is» £n. Pierre's Etudes de '. 



Nature. 



The boy in many a gambol flew, 
While Reason, like a Juno stalk'd, 

And from her portly figure threw 
A lengthen' d shadow, as she walk'd. 

No wonder Love, as on they pass'd, 
Should find that sunny morning chill, 

For still the shadow Reason cast 
Fell on the boy, and cool'd him still. 

In vain he tried his wings to warm, 
Or find a pathway not so dim, 

For still the maid's gigantic form 
Would pass between the sun and him ! 

" This must not be," said little Love — 
" The sun was made for more than you ' 

So, turning through a myrtle grove, 
He bid the portly nymph adieu ! 

Now gaily roves the laughing boy 

O'er many a mead, by many a stream ; 

In every breeze inhaling joy, 
And drinking bliss in every beam. 

From all the gardens, all the bowers, 
He cull'd the many sweets they shaded, 

And ate the fruits, and smelt the flowers, 
Till taste was gone and odour faded ! 

But now the sun, in pomp of noon, 

Look'd blazing o'er the parched plains ; 

Alas ! the boy grew languid soon, 
And fever thrill'd through all his veins ! 

The dew forsook his baby brow, 

No more with vivid bloom he smil'd — ■ 

Oh ! where was tranquil Reason now, 
To cast her shadow o'er the child ? 

Beneath a green and aged palm, 

His foot at length for shelter turning, 

He saw the nymph reclining calm, 

With brow as cool a his was burning \ 

" Oh ! take me to that bosom cold," 
In murmurs at her feet he said ; 

And Reason op'd her garment's fold, 
And flung it round his fever'd head. 

He felt her bosom's icy touch, 

And soon it lull'd his pulse to rest ; 

For, ah ! the chill was quite too much, 
And Love expir'd on Reason's breast ! 



Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dea ! 

While in these arms you lie, 
The world hath not a wish, a fear, 
That ought to claim one precious tear 

From that beloved eye ! 

The world ! — ah, Fanny ! love must shun 

The path where many rove ; 
One bosom to recline upon, 
One heart to be his only one, 

Are quite enough for love ! 

What can we wish, that is not here 
Between your arms and mine ? 



118 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Is there, on earth, a space so dear, 
As that within the blessed sphere 
Two loving arms entwine ! 

For me there 's not a lock of jet 

Along your temples curl'd, 
Within whose glossy, tangled net, 
My soul doth not, at once, forget 
All, all the worthless world ! 

'Tis in your eyes, my sweetest love! 

My only worlds I see ; 
Let but their orbs in sunshine "move, 
And earth below and skies above 

May frown or smile for me ! 



ASPASIA. 

'Twas in the fair Aspasia's bower, 
That Love and Learning many an hour, 
in dalliance met, and Learning smifd, 
With rapture on the playful child, 
Who wanton stole to find his nest 
Within a fold of Learning's vest ! 

There, as the listening statesman hung 
In transport on Aspasia's tongue, 
The destinies of Athens took 
Their colour from Aspasia's look. 
Oh happy time ! when laws of state, 
When all that rul'd the country's fate, 
Its glory, quiet, or alarms, 
Was plann'd between two snowy arms ! 

Sweet times ! you could not always last- 
And yet, oh ! yet, you are not past ; 
Though we have lost the sacred mould, 
In which their men were cast of old, 
Woman, dear woman, still the same, 
While lips are balm, and looks are flame, 
While man possesses heart or eyes, 
Woman's bright empire never dies ! 

Fanny, my love, they ne'er shall say, 
That beauty's charm hath pass'd away ; 
No — give the universe a soul 
Attun'd to woman's soft control, 
And Fanny hath the charm, the skill, 
To wield a universe at will ! 



THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE 
BLESSED ISLANDS. 1 

TO HER LOVER. 



ITv9*.yop>i;, octroi 

A?TO'KK 



T£ jcopot/ <rT>ip<£»v epco-ros. 
iv 7tb pt ILVa>T»vs. Oracul. Metric, 
a Joan. Opsop. Cullecta. 



Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray, 
That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away ? 
I lingei'd still, in all the murmuring rest, 
The languor of a soul too richly blest ! 



1 " It was imagined by some of the ancients that there is 
~an ethereal ocean above us, and that the sun and moon are 



Upon my breath thy sigh yet faintly hung ; 
Thy name yet died in whispers o'er my tongue , 
I heard thy lyre, which thou hadst left behind, 
In amorous converse with the breathing wind ; 
Quick to my heart I press'd the shell divine, 
And, with a lip yet glowing warm from thine, 
I kiss'd its every chord, while every kiss 
Shed o'er the chord some dewy print of bliss. 
Then soft to thee I touch'd the fervid lyre, 
Which told such melodies, such notes of fire 
As none but chords, that drank the burning dews 
Of kisses dear as ours, could e'er diffuse : 
Oh love ! how blissful is the bland repose, 
That soothing follows upon rapture's close, 
Like a soft twilight, o'er the mind to shed 
Mild melting traces of the transport fled ! 

While thus I lay, in this voluptuous calm, 
A drowsy languor steep'd my eyes in balm, 
Upon my lap the lyre in murmurs fell, 
While, faintly wandering o'er its silver shell, 
My fingers soon their own sweet requiem play'd, 
And slept in music which themselves had made ! 
Then, then, my Theon, what a heavenly dream ' 
I saw two spirits, on the lunar beam, 
Two winged boys, descending from above, 
And gliding to my bower with looks of love, 
Like the young genii, who repose their wings 
All day in Amatha's luxurious springs, 1 
And rise at midnight, from the tepid rill 
To cool their plumes upon some moon-light hill! 

Soft o'er my brow, which kindled with their sighsj 
Awhile they play'd ; then gliding through my eyes, 
(Where the bright babies, for a moment, hung, 
Like those thy lip hath kiss'd, thy lyre hath sung,) 
To that dim mansion of my breast they stole, 
Where, wreath'd in blisses lay my captive soul. 
Swift at their touch dissolv'd the ties that clung 
So sweetly round her, and aloft she sprung ! 
Exulting guides, the little genii flew 
Through paths of light, refresh'd with starry dew, 
And fann'd by airs of that ambrosial breath, 
On which the free soul banquets after death ! 

Thou know'st, my love, beyond our clouded skies, 
As bards have dream'd, the spirits' kingdom lies. 
Through that fair clime a sea of ether rolls 2 
Gemm'd with bright islands, where the hallow'd souls, 



two floating, luminous islands, in which the spirits of the 
blessed reside. Accordingly we rind that the word ilxsavoj 
was sometimes synonymous with x>ig, and death was not 
unfrequently called llxexvoio jro^oy, or " the passage of the 
ocea^i." 

1 Eunapius, in his life of Jamblichus, tells us of two 
beautiful little spirits or loves, which Jamblichus raised by 
enchantment from the warm springs at Gadara; "dicens 
aslantibus (says the author of the Dii Fatidici, p. 160) illos 
esse loci Genios :" which words however are not in Euna- 
pius. 

1 find from Cellarius, that Amatha, in the neighbourhood 
of Gardara, was also celebrated for its warm springs, and I 
have preferred it as a more poetical name than Gadara. 
Cellarius quotes Hieronymus. " Est et alia villa in vicinia 
Gadara? nomine Amatha, ubi calidae aqu* erumpunt." — 
Geograph. Antiq. Lib. iii. cap. 13. 

2 This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or " waters above 
th(- firmament," was one of the many physical errors in 
which the early fathers bewildered themselves. Le P. Baltus 
in his " Defense des saints Peres accuses de Platonisme,' 
taking it for granted that the ancients were more correct in 
their notions, (which by no means appears from whal I have 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



119 



Whom life hath wearied in its race of hours 

Repose for ever in unfading bowers ! 

That very orb, whose solitary light 

So often guides thee to my arms at night, 

Is no chill planet, but an isle of love, 

Floating, in splendour, through those seas above ! 

Thither, 1 thought, we wing'd our airy way, 

Mild o'er its valleys stream'd a silvery day, 

While, all around, on lily beds of rest, 

Reclin'd the spirits of the immortal Blest I 1 

Oh ! there I met those few congenial maids, 

Whom love hath warm'd, in philosophic shades ; 

There still Leontium 2 on her sage's breast, 

Found lore and love, was tutor'd and caress'd ; 

And there the twine of Pythias' 3 gentle arms 

Repaid the zeal which deihed her charms ! 

The Attic Master, 4 In Aspasia's eyes 

Forgot the toil of less endearing ties ; 

While fair Theano, 5 innocently fair, 

Play'd with the ringlets of her Samian's hair. 6 



already quoted; adduces the obstinacy of the fathers in this 
whimsical opinion, as a proof of their repugnance to even 
►ruth from the hands of the philosophers. Tnis is a strange 
way of defending the fathers, and attributes much more than 
they deserve to ihe philosophers. For an abstract of this 
work of Baltus, (the opposer of Fontenelle, Van Dale, etc. 
in the famous oracle controversy) see " Bibliotheque des 
Auteurs Ecclesiast. du 18. siecle," 1 Part. Tom. ii. 

1 There were various opinions among the ancients with 
respect to their lunar establishment; some make it an elysi- 
um, and others a purgatory; while some suppose it to be a 
kind of entrepot between heaven and earth, where souls 
which had left their bodies, and those which were on their 
way to join them, were deposited in the valleys of Hecate, 
and remained till further orders. Tojj m^i <rtKv\vv\v asp* 
Kiytiv *vtx{ x*to«x£*v, x.xi aw' «ut>ij x*tu> %x>^hv tig 
tiji/ TrtQiysiov ysvt<nv. Stob. lib. 1. Eclog. Physic. 

2 The pupil and mistress of Epicurus, who called her his 
"dear little Leontium" (Aeovt^ioi/) as appears by a frag- 
ment of one of his letters in Laertius. This Leontium was 
a woman of talent; " she had the impudence (says Cicero) 
to write against Theophrastus ;" and, at the same time 
Cicero gives her a name which is neither polite nor trans- 
lateable, " Meretricula etiara Leontium contra Theophras- 
tum scribere ausa est." — De Matur. Deor. She left a 
daughter called Danae, who was just as rigid an Epicurean 
as her mother; something like Wieland's Danae in Agathon. 

It would sound much better, I think, if the name were 
Leontia, as it occurs the first time in Laertius ; but M. Me- 
nage will not hear of this reading. 

3 Pythias was a woman whom Aristotle loved, and to 
whom after her death he paid divine honours, solemnizing 
her memory by the lame sacrifices which the Athenians 
offered to the goddesw Ceres. For this impious gallantry the 
philosopher was, of course, censured ; it would be well how- 
ever if some of our modern Stagirites had a little of this 
superstition about the memory of their mistresses. 

4 Socrates; who used to console himself in the society of 
Aspasia for those ll less endearing ties" which he found at 
home with Xantippe. For an account of this extraordinary 
creature, iNriasia, and her school of erudite luxury at 
Athens, see L/Uistoire de 1'Academie, etc. Tom. xxxi. p. 
69. Segur raiher fails on the subject of Aspasia. "Les 
Femmes." Tom. i. p. 122. 

The author of the " Voyage du Monde de Descartes" has 
also placed tlu'se philosophers in the moon, and lias allotted 
Sei?neuries to them, as well as to ihe astronomers ; (2 part. 
p. 143.) but he ought not to have toigotten their wives and 
mistress***" ' Curie nor. ipsa in morte relinquunt." 

5 Tht.„ are some sensible letters extant under the name 
of this fair Pythagorean. They are addressed to her female 
friends upon the education of children, the treatment of ser- 
vants, etc. One, in particular, to Nicostrata, whose hus- 
band had given her reasons for jealousy, contains such truly 
considerate and rational advice, that it ought to be trans- 
ited for the edification of all married ladies. See Gale's 
Opuscul. Myth. Phys. p. 741. 

6 Pythagoras was remarkable for fine hair, and Doctor 
Thiers (m his Histoire des Perruques) seems to take it for 
granted it v/as all his own as he has not mentioned him 



Who, fix'd by love, at length was all her own, 
And pass'd his spirit through her lips alone ! 

Oh Samian sage ! whate'er thy glowing thought 
Of mystic Numbers hath divinely wrought; 
The One that 's form'd of Two who dearly love, 
Is the best number heaven can boast above ! 
But think, my Theon, how this soul was thrill'd, 
When near a fount, which o'er the vale distill' d, 
My fancy's eye beheld a form recline, 
Of lunar race, but so resembling thine, 
That, oh ! — 'twas but fidelity in me, 
To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee ! 
No aid of words the unbodied soul requires, 
To waft a wish, or embassy desires ; 
But, by a throb to spirits only given, 
By a mute impulse, only felt in heaven, 
Swifter than meteor shaft through summer skies, 
From soul to soul the glanc'd idea flies ! 

We met— like thee the youthful vision smil'd ; 
But not like thee, when passionately wild, 
Thou wak'st the slumbering blushes of my cheek, 
By looking things thyself would blush to speak ! 
No ! 'twas the tender, intellectual smile, 
Flush'd with the past and yet serene the while, 
Of that delicious hour when, glowing yet, 
Thou yield'st to nature with a fond regret, 
And thy soul, waking from its wilder'd dream, 
Lights in thine eye a mellower, chaster beam ! 

Oh my beloved ! how divinely sweet 
Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet ! 
Th' Elean god, 1 whose faithful waters flow, 
With love their only light, through caves below, 
Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids, 
And festal rings, with which Olympic maids 
Have deck'd their billow, as an offering meet 
To pour at Arethusa's crystal feet ! 
Think, when he mingles with his fountain-bride 
What perfect rapture thrills the blended tide ! 
Each melts in each, till one pervading kiss 
Confound their current in a sea of bliss ! 
'Twas thus — 

But, Theon, 'tis a weary theme, 
And thou delight' st not in my lingering dream. 
Oh ! that our lips were, at this moment, near, 
And I would kiss thee into patience, dear ! 
And make thee smile at all the magic tales 
Of star-light bowers and planetary vales, 
Which my fond soul, inspir'd by thee and love, 
In slumber's loom hath exquisitely wove. 
But no ; no more — soon as to-morrow's ray 
O'er soft Ilissus shall dissolve away, 
I'll fly, my Theon, to thy burning breast, 
And there in murmurs tell thee all the rest : 
Then if too weak, too cold the vision seems, 
Thy lip shall teach me something more than dreams ! 



among those ancients who were obliged to have recourse to 
the " coma apposititia." L'Hist. des Perruques, Chap I 

1 The river Alpheus; which flowed by Pisa or Olvmpia, 
and into which it was customary to throw offerings of dif- 
ferent kinds, during the celebration of the Olympic games. 
In the pretty romance of Clitophon and Leucippe, the river 
is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts to the 
fountain Arethusa. K«i ejti tv\v Agibxa-xv htmtov Aks>».(^ 
v\)jj.$ xgro^ti' otxv vv Yi took Oa.u/*jt»wk cojtjj.x. t a.. Lib _ 



120 MOORE'S WORKS. 




" Whpn he illumes her magic urn, 


THE SENSES. 


And sheds his own enchantments in it, 


A DREAM. 


Though but a minute's space it burn, 


Imbower'd in the vernal shades, 


'Tis heaven to breathe it but a minute ! 


And circled all by rosy fences, 


" Not all the purest power we boast, 


I saw the five luxurious maids, 


Not silken touch, nor vernal dye, 


Whom mortals love, and call The Senses. 


Nor music, when it thrills the most, 


Many and blissful were the ways, 


Nor balmy cup, nor perfume's sigh, 


In which they seem'd to pass their hours— 


" Such transport to the soul can give, 


One wander'd through the garden's maze, 


Though felt till time itself shall wither, 


Inhaling all the soul of flowers ; 


As in that one dear moment live, 


Like those, who live upon the smell 


When Love conducts our sister hither !' 


Of roses, by the Ganges' stream, 1 


She ceas'd — the air respir'd of bliss — 


With perfume from the flowret's bell, 


A languor slept in every eye ; 


She fed her life's ambrosial dream ! 


And now the scent of Cupid's kiss 


Another touch'd the silvery lute, 


Declar'd the melting power was nigh ! 


To chain a charmed sister's ear, 


I saw them come — the nymph and boy, 


Who hung beside her, still and mute, 


In twisted wreaths of rapture bound ; 


Gazing as if her eyes could hear ! 


I saw her light the urn of joy, 




While all her sisters languish'd round I 


The nymph who thrill'd the warbling wire, 
Would often raise her ruby lip, 

As if it pouted with desire 

Some cooling, nectar'd draught to sip. 


A sigh from every bosom broke — 
I felt the flames around me glide, 

Till with the glow I trembling woke, 
And found myself by Fanny's side ! 


Nor yet was she, who heard the lute, 




Unmindful of the minstrel maid, 


— — 


But press'd the sweetest, richest fruit 


THE STEERSMAN'S SONG. 


To bathe her ripe lip as she play'd ! 






WRITTEN AEOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE 28th APRIV 


But, oh! the fairest of the group 
Was one, who in the sunshine lay, 


• 


When freshly blows the northern gale, 


And op'd the cincture's golden loop 


And under coursers snug we fly ; 


That hid her bosom's panting play ! 


When lighter breezes swell the sail, 




And royals proudly sweep the sky ; 


And still her gentle hand she stole 


'Longside the wheel, unwearied still 


Along the snows, so smoothly orb'd, 


I stand, and as my watchful eye 


And look' the while, as if her soul 


Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, 


Were in that heavenly touch absorb'd ! 


I think of her I love, and cry, 


Another nymph, who linger'd nigh, 


Port, my boy ! port. 


And held a prism of various light, 


When calms delay, or breezes blow 


Now put the rainbow wonder by, 


Right from the point we wish to steer ; 


To look upon this lovelier sight. 


When by the wind close-haul'd we go, 




And strive in vain the port to near ; 


And still as one's enamour'd touch 


I think 'tis thus the Fates defer 


Adown the lapsing ivory fell, 


My bliss with one that's far away, 


The other's eye, entranc'd as much, 


And while remembrance springs to her, 


Hung giddy o'er its radiant swell ! 


I watch the sails and sighing say, 


Too wildly charm'd, I would have fled — 


Thus, my boy ! thus. 


But she, who in the sunshine lay, 


But see ! the wind draws kindly aft, 


Replac'd her golden loop, and said, 


All hands are up the yards to square, 


" We pray thee for a moment stay. 


And now the floating stu'n-sails waft 


" If true my counting pulses beat, 


Our stately ship through waves and air. 


It must be now almost the hour, 


Oh ! then I think that yet for me 


When Love, with visitation sweet, 


Some breeze of Fortune thus may spring, 


Descends upon our bloomy bower. 


Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee ! 




And in that hope I smiling sing, 

Steady, boy ! so. 


"And with him from the sky he brings 


Our sister-nymph who dwells above — 
Oh ! never may she haunt these springs, 


1 I left Bermuda in the Boston, about the middle of April, 


With any other god but Love ! 


in company with the Cambrian and Learrder, aboard tin; 




latter of which was the Admiral, Sir Andrew Mitch HI who 
divides his year between Halifax and Bermuda, and is the 




• Circa fontem Gangis Astomorum gcntum halitu 


very soul of society and good-fellowship to both. We 


Santum viventum et odore quern naribus trahant. Plin. 


separated in a few days,, and the Boston after a short cruise 


lib vii. cat) 2 


proceeded to New-York. 


, 


— 1 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



121 



TO CLOE. 

IMITATED FROM MARTIAL. 

I could resign that eye of blue, 
Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me ; 

And, though your lip be rich with dew, 
To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me. 

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, 
However warm I've twin'd about it ! 

And though your bosom beat with bliss, 
I think my soul could live without it. 

In short, I've learn'd so well to fast, 
That, sooth my love, I know not whether 

I might not bring myself at last, 
1 j — do without you altogether ! 



TO THE FIRE-FLY. 1 

This morning, when the earth and sky 
Were burning, with the blush of spfcing, 

I saw thee not, thou humble fly ! 
Nor thought upon thy gleaming wing. 

But now the skies have lost their hue, 
And sunny lights no longer play, 

I see thee, and I bless thee too 
For sparkling o'er the dreary way. 

Oh ! let me hope that thus for me, 
When life and love shall lose their bloom, 

Some milder joys may come, like thee, 
To light, if not to warm, the gloom ! 



THE VASE. 

There was a vase of odour lay 

For many an hour on Beauty's shrine, 

So sweet that Love went every day 
To banquet on its breath divine. 

And not an eye had ever seen 

The fragrant charm the vase conceal 'd— 
Oh Love ! how happy 'twould have been, 

If thou hadst ne'er that charm reveal'd! 

But Love, like every other boy, 

Would know the spell that lurks within ; 
He wish'd to break the crystal toy, 

But Beauty murmur'd " 'twas a sin !" 

He swore, with many a tender plea, 
That neither heaven or earth forbad it ; 

She told him, Virtue kept the key, 
And look'd as if— she wish'd he had it ! 

He stole the key when Virtue slept, 

(E'en she can sleep, if Love but ask it !) 

And Beauty sigh'd, and Beauty wept, 
While silly Love unlock'd the casket. 



1 The lively and varying illuminations, with which these 
fire-flies light up the woods at night, gives quite an idea of 
enchantment. "Puis ces mouches se developpant de l'ob- 
•curitc de ct,u aibres et s'approchant de nous, nous les 
voyions sur les orangers voisins. qu'ils mettaient tout en 
feii, nous rendant la vue de leurs beaux fruits dores que la 
nuit avait ravic," etc. etc. — See V Histoire des Antilles, 
Art. -2. Chap. 4. Liv. 1. 



Oh dulcet air that vanish'd then ! 

Can Beauty's sigh recall thee ever ! 
Can Love, himself, inhale again 

A breath so precious ? never ! never ! 

Go, maiden, weep — the tears of woe 
By Beauty to repentance given, 

Though bitterly on earth they flow, 
Shall turn to fragrant balm in heaven ! 



THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN 
I bring thee, Love, a golden Chain, 

I bring thee too a flowery Wreath ; 
The gold shall never wear a stain, 

The flow'rets long shall sweetly breathe 
Come, tell me which the tie shall be 
To bind thy gentle heart to me. 

The Chain is of a splendid thread, 

Stol'n from Minerva's yellow hair, 
Just when the setting sun had shed 

The sober beam of evening there. 
The Wreath 's of brightest myrtle wove, 

With brilliant tears of bliss among it, 
And many a rose-leaf, cull'd by Love, 

To heal his lip when bees have stung it ! 
Come, tell me which the tie shall be, 
To bind thy gentle heart to me. 

Yes, yes, I read that ready eye, 

Which answers when the tongue is loatn, 
Thou lik'st the form of either tie, 

And hold'st thy playful hands for both. 
Ah ! — if there were not something wrong, 

The world would see them blended oft , 
The Chain would make the Wreath so strong 

The Wreath would make the Chain so soft] 
Then might the gold, the flow'rets be 
Sweet fetters for my love and me ! 

But, Fanny, so unblest they twine, 

That (heaven alone can tell the reason) 
When mingled thus they cease to shine, 

Or shine but for a transient season ! 
Whether the Chain may press too much, 

Or that the Wreath is slightly braided, 
Let but the gold the flow'rets touch, % 

And all their glow, their tints, are faded ! 
Sweet Fanny, what would Rapture do, 

When all her blooms had lost their grace i 
Might she not steal a rose or two, 

From other wreaths, to fill their place ? — 
Oh ! better to be always free, 
Than thus to bind my love to thee 



The timid girl now hung her head, 

And, as she turn'd an upward g' ^nce, 
I saw a doubt its twilight spread 

Along her brow's divine expanse. 
Just then, the garland's dearest rose 

Gave one of its seducing sighs — 
Oh ! who can ask how Fanny chose, 

That ever look'd in Fanny's eyes ! 
" The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall b« 
The tie to bind mv soul to thee !" 



122 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



TO 



And nast thou mark'd the pensive shade, 
That many a time obscures my brow, 

Midst all the blisses, darling maid, 
Which thou canst give, and only thou ? 

Oh ! 'tis not that I then forget 

The endearing charms that round me twine — 
There never throbb'd a bosom yet 

Could feel their witchery, like mine ! 

When bashful on my bosom hid, 
And blushing to have felt so blest, 

Thou dost but lift thy languid lid, 
Again to close it on my breast ! 

Oh ! these are minutes all thine own, 
Thine own to give, and mine to feel; 

Yet e'en in them, my heart has known 
The sigh to rise, the tear to steal. 

For I have thought of former hours, 
When he who first thy sold possess'd, 

Like me awak'd its witching powers, 
Like me was lov'd, like me was blest ! 

Upon Jtis name thy murmuring tongue 
Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt ; 

For him that snowy lid hath hung 
In ecstasy, as purely felt ! 

For him — yet why the past recall 
To wither blooms of present bliss ! 

Thou'rt now my own, I clasp thee all, 
And Heaven can grant no more than this ! 

Forgive me, dearest, oh ! forgive ; 

I would be first, be sole to thee ; 
Thou should'st but have begun to live, 

The hour that gave thy heart to me. 

Thy book of life till then effac'd, 

Love should have kept that leaf alone, 

On which he first so dearly trac'd 
That thou wert, soul and all, my own ! 



EPISTLE VI. 
TO LORD VISCOUNT FORBES. 

FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON. 

kAI MH 0ATMASHIS MHT' EI MAKPOTEPAN TE- 
TPAt'A THN EniXTOAHN, MHA' EI TI IIEPIEPrO- 
TEPON H nPESBTTIKP.TEPON EIPHKAMEN EAXTH. 
Isocrat. Epist. 4. 

If former times had never left a trace, 
Of human frailty in their shadowy race, 
Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran, 
One dark memorial of the crimes of man ; 
If every age, in new unconscious prime, 
Rose, like a phoenix, from the fires of time, 
To wing its way unguided and alone, 
The future smiling, and the past unknown- 
Then ardent man would to himself be new, 
Earth at hi* foot, and heaven within his view, 



Well might the novice hope — the sanguine scheme 
Of full perfection prompt his daring dream, 
Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore, 
Could tell him, fools had dream'd as much before ' 
But tracing, as we do, through age and clime 
The plans of virtue 'midst the deeds of crime, 
The thinking follies, and the reasoning rage 
Of man, at once the idiot and the sage ; 
When still we see, through every varying frame 
Of arts and polity, his course the same, 
And know that ancient fools but died to make 
A space on earth for modern fools to take ; 
'Tis strange, how quickly we the past forget ; 
That wisdom's self shduld not be tutor'd yet, 
Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth 
Of pure perfection 'midst the sons of earth ! 

Oh ! nothing but that soul which God has given, 
Could lead us thus to look on earth for heaven ; 
O'er dross without to shed the flame within, 
And dream of virtue while we gaze on sin ! 

Even here, oeside the proud Potomac's stream, 

Might sages still pursue the flattering theme 

Of days to come, when man shall conquer fate, 

Rise o'er the level of this mortal state, 

Belie the monuments of frailty past, 

And stamp perfection on this world at last ! 

" Here," might they say, " shall power's divided reign 

Evince that patriots have not bled in vain. 

Here godlike liberty's herculean youth, 

Cradled in peace, and nurtur'd up by truth 

To full maturity of nerve and mind, 

Shall crush the giants that bestride mankind !' 

Here shall religion's pure and balmy draught, 

In form, no more from cups of state be quatTd ; 

But flow for all, through nation, rank, and sect, 

Free as that heaven its tranquil waves reflect. 

Around the columns of the public shrine 

Shall growing arts their gradual wreath entwine, 

Nor breathe corruption from their flowering braid, 

Nor mine that fabric which they bloom to shade. 

No longer here shall justice bound her view, 

Or wrong the many, while she rights the few ; 

But take her range through all the social frame, 

Pure and pervading as that vital flame, 

Which warms at once our best and meanest part, 

And thrills a hair while it expands a heart !" 

Oh golden dream ! what soul that loves to scan 
The brightness rather than the shades of man, 
That own the good, while smarting with the ill 
And loves the world with all its frailty still — 
What ardent bosom does not spring to meet 
The generous hope with all that heavenly heat, 
Which makes the soul unwilling to resign 
The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine . 
Yes, dearest Forbes, I see thee glow to think 
The chain of ages yet may boast a link 



1 Thus Morse:—" Here the sciences and the arts of ci- 
vilized life arc to receive their highest improvements ; hero 
civil and religious liberty are to flourish, unchecked by the 
cruel hand of civil or ecclesiastical tyranny; here genius, aided 
by all the improvements of former ages, is to be exerted in 
humanizing mankind, in expanding and enriching theil 
minds with religious and philosophical knowledge," etc 
etc. p. 569 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



123 



Of purer texture than the world has known, 
And fit to bind us to a Godhead's throne ! 

But, is it thus ? doth even the glorious dream 
Borrow from truth that dim uncertain gleam, 
Which bids us give such dear delusion scope, 
As kills not reason, while it nurses hope ? 
No j no, believe me, 'tis not so — e'en now, 
While yet upon Columbia's rising brow 
The showy smile of young presumption plays, 
Her bloom is poison'd and her heart decays ! 
Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath 
Burns with the taint of empires near their death, 
And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime, 
She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime! 1 

Already has the child of Gallia's school, 
The foul Philosophy that sins by rule, 
With all her train of reasoning, damning arts 
Begot by brilliant heads or worthless hearts, 
Like things that quicken after Nilus' flood, 
The venom'd birth of sunshine and of mud ! 
Already has she pour'd her poison here 
O'er every charm that makes existence dear— 
Already blighted, with her black'ning trace, 
The opening bloom of every social grace, 
And all those courtesies, that love to shoot 
Round Virtue's stem, the flow'rets of her fruit ! 

Oh ! were these errors but the wanton tide 

Of young luxuriance or unchasten'd pride ; 

The fervid follies and the faults of such 

As wrongly feel, because they feel too much ; 

Then might experience make the fever less, 

Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess : 

But no ; 'tis heartless, speculative ill — 

All youth's transgression with all age's chill— 

The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice, 

A slow and cold stagnation into vice ! 

Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, 
And latest folly of man's sinking age, 
Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, 
While nobler passions wage their heated strife, 
Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, 
And dies, collecting lumber in the rear ! 
Long has it palsied every grasping hand 
And greedy spirit through this bartering land ; 
Turn'd life to traffic, set the demon gold 
So loose abroad, that Virtue's self is sold, 
And conscience, truth, and honesty, are made 
To rise and fall, like other wares of trade ! 2 

Already in this free, this virtuous state, 

Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordain'd by fate, 



1 " What will be the old age of this government, if it is 
thus early decrepit !" Such was the remark of Fauchet, 
the French minister at Philadelphia, in that famous despatch 
to his government which was intercepted by one of our 
cruisers in th" year 1794. This curious memorial may be 
found in Porcupine's Works, vol. i. p. 279. It remains a 
strikins momrnent of republican intrigue on one side, and 
republican profligacy on the other; and I would recommend 
the perusal of it to every honest politician, who may labour 
under a moment's delusion with respect to the purity of 
American patriotism. 

2 "Nous voyons que dans les pavs oil Ton n'est affecte 
que de l'esprit de commerce, on trafique de toutes les actions 
hnmaines et de toutes les vert us morales " Montesquieu, de 
"Esprit des Lois, Liv. 20. Chap. 2 



To show the world, what high perfection springs 

From rabble senators, and merchant kings — > 

Even here already patriots learn to steal 

Their private perquisites from public weal, 

And, guardians of the country's sacred fire, 

Like Afric's priests, they let the flame for hire ! 

Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose 

From England's debtors to be England's foes, 1 

Who could their monarch in their purse forget, 

And break allegiance, but to cancel debt, 2 

Have prov'd, at length, the mineral's tempting hue, 

Which makes a patriot, can unmake him too 3 

Oh ! freedom, freedom, how I hate thy cant ! 

Not eastern bombast, nor the savage rant 

Of purpled madmen, were they number'd all 

From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul, 

Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base, 

As the rank jargon of that factious race, 

Who, poor of heart, and prodigal of words, 

Born to be slaves and struggling to be lords, 

But pant for licence while they spurn control, 

And shout for rights with rapine in their soul. 

Who can, with patience, for a moment see 

The medley mass of pride and misery, 

Of whips and charters, manacles and right*. 

Of slaving blacks and democratic whites, 4 

And all the pye-bald polity that reigns 

In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains ? 

To think that man, thou just and gentle God 

Should stand before thee, with a tyrant's rod 

O'er creatures like himself, with soul from the*, 

Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty : 

Away, away — I'd rather hold my neck 

By doubtful tenure from a sultan's beck, 

In climes, where liberty has scarce been nam d 

Nor any right but that of ruling claim'd, 

Than thus to live, where bastard freedom wave* 

Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves ; 

WTiere (motley laws admitting no degree 

Betwixt the vilely slav'J and madly free) 



j I trust I shall not be suspected of a wish to justify thofr 
arbitrary steps of the English government which the Colo- 
nies found it so necessary to resist; my only object here i» 
to expose the selfish motives of some of the leading Ameri- 
can demagogues. 

2 The most pe'severing enemy to the interests of this 
country, among the politicians of the western world, has 
been a Virginian merchant, who, finding it easier to settle 
his conscience than his debts, was one of the first to raise 
the standard against Great Britain, and has ever since en- 
deavoured to revenge upon the whole country the obliga- 
tions which he lies under to a few of its merchants. 

3 See Porcupine's account of the Pennsylvania Insurrec- 
tion in 1794. In short, see Porcupine's Works throughout 
for ample corroboration of every sentiment which I have 
ventured to express. In saying this, I refer less to the com- 
ments of that writer, than to the occurrences wuirh he has 
related, and the documents which he has preserved. Opi- 
nion may be suspected of bias, but facts speak for mem 
selves. 

4 In Virginia the effects of this system begin to be felt 
rather seriously. While the master raved of liberty, the 
slave cannot but catch the contagion, and accordingly there 
seldom ehipses a month without some alarm of insurrection 
amongst the negroes. The accession of Louisiana, it is 
feared, will increase this embarrassment; as the numerous 
emigrations which are expected to take place from the 
southern states to this newly acquired territory, wil' con- 
siderably diminish the white population, and thus strengthen 
the proportion of negroes to a degree which must ultimately 
be ruinous. 



124 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Alike the bondage and the licence suit, 

The brute made ruler and the man made brute ! 

But, oh my Forbes ! while thus, in flowerless song, 

I feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong, 

The ills, the vices of the land, where first 

Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nurst ! 

Where treason's arm by royalty was nerv'd, 

And Frenchmen learn'd to crush the throne they 

serv'd — 
Thou, gently lull'd in dreams of classic thought, 
By bards illumin'd and by sages taught, 
Pant'sl to be all, upon this mortal scene, 
That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been ! 
Why should I wake thee ? why severely chace 
The lovely forms of virtue and of grace, 
That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread 
By Spartan matrons round the genial bed, 
Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art 
Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart ! 

Forgive me, Forbes — and should the song destroy 

One generous hope, one throb of social joy, 

One high pulsation of the zeal for man, 

Which few can feel, and bless'd that few who can ! 

Oh ! turn to him, beneath whose kindred eyes 

Thy talents open and thy virtues rise, 

Forget where nature has been dark or dim, 

And proudly study all her lights in him ! 

Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget, 

And feel that man may reach perfection yet ! 



SONG. 
The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove 

Is fair — but oh ! how fair, 
If Pity's hand had stolen from Love 

One leaf to mingle there ! 

If every rose with gold were tied, 

Dim gems for dew-drops fall, 
One faded leaf where love had sigh'd 

Were sweetly worth them all ! 

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove 

Our emblem well may be ; 
Its bloom is yours, but hopeless love 

Must keep its tears for me ! 



LYING. 



Che con le lor bujie pajon divini. 

Mauro d? Arcane. 

I do confess, in many a sigh, 
My lips have breath'd you many a lie, 
And who, with such delights in view, 
Would lose them for a lie or two ? 
Nay — look not thus, with brow reproving ; 
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving ! 
If half we tell the girls were true, 
If half we swear to think and do, 
Were aught but lying's bright illusion, 
The world would be in strange confusion ! 
'f ladies' eyes were, every one, 
As lovers swear, a radiant sun 



Astronomy should leave the skies, 
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes ! 
Oh no ! — believe me, lovely girl, 
When nature turns your teeth to pearl, 
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, 
Your yellow locks to golden wire, 
Then, only then, can heaven decree, 
That you should live for only me, 
Or I for you, as night and morn, 
We've swearing kks'd, and kissing swon 

And now, my gentle hints to clear, 
For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear ! 
Whenever you may chance to meet 
A loving youth, whose love is sweet, 
Long as you're false and he believes yojfc 
Long as you trust and he deceives you. 
So long the blissful bond endures; 
And while he lies, his heart is yours j 
But, oh ! you've wholly lost the youth 
The instant that h* tells you truth ! 



ANACREONTIC. 
I fill'd to thee, to thee I drank, 

I nothing did but drink and fill ; 
The bowl by turns was bright and blank, 

'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still ! 
At length I bid an artist paint 

Thy image in this ample cup, 
That I might see the dimpled saint 

To whom I quaff'd my nectar up. 
Behold how bright that purple lip 

Is blushing through the wave at me ! 
Every roseat drop I sip 

Is just like kissing wine from thee ! 
But, oh ! I drink the more for this ; 

For, ever when the draught I drain, 
Thy lip invites another kiss, 

And in the nectar flows again ! 
So, here's to thee, my gentle dear ! 

And may that eye for ever shine 
Beneath as soft and sweet a tear 

As oathes it in this bowl of mine ! 



TO 



•S PICTURE. 



Go then, if she whose shade thou art 
No more will let thee soothe my pain — 

Yet tell her, it has cost this heart 

Some pangs, to give thee back again ! 

Tell her the smile was not so dear, 

With which she made thy semblance mine, 

As bitter is the burning tear, 
With which 1 now the gift resign ! 

Yet go — and could she still restore, 
As some exchange for taking thee, 

The tranquil look which first I wore, 
When her eyes found me wild and free : 

Could she give back the careless flow, 
The spirit which my fancy knew— 

Yet, ah ! 'tis vain— go, picture, go- 
Smile at me once, and then — adieu ! 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC 



125 



FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN 
TO LOVE. 1 

Blest infant of eternity ! 

Before the day-star learn'd to move, 
In pomp of fire, along his grand career, 

Glancing the beamy shafts of light 
From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere, 
Thou wert alone, oh Love ! 

Nestling beneath the wings of ancient night 
Whose horrors seem'd to smile in shadowing thee ! 
No form of beauty sooth'd thine eye, 

As through the dim expanse it wander'd wide; 
No kindred spirit caught thy sigh, 

As o'er the watery waste it lingering died. 
Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power, 

That latent in his heart was sleeping ; 
Oh Sympathy ! that lonely hour 

Saw Love himself thy absence weeping ! 

But look what glory through the darkness beams ! 
Celestial airs along the water glide : 
What spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide 
So lovely ? Art thou but the child 
Of the young godhead's dreams, 
That mock his hope with fancies strange and wild ? 
Or were his tears, as quick they fell, 
Collected in so bright a form, 
Till, kindled by the ardent spell 

Of his desiring eyes, 
And all impregnate with his sighs, 
They spring to life in shape so fair and warm ! 

'Tis she ! 

Psyche, the first born spirit of the air ! 

To thee, oh Love ! she turns, 

On thee her eye-beam burns : 

Blest hour of nuptial ecstacy ! 

They meet — 
The blooming god — the spirit fair— 

Oh ! sweet, oh heavenly sweet 1 
Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine ; 
All nature feels the thrill divine, 
The veil of Chaos is withdrawn, 
And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn ! 



TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS 

THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER, 

ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE F-RB-S. 

Donington Park, 1802. 
To catch the thought, by painting's spell, 

Howe'er remote, howe'er refin'd, 
And o'er the magic tablet tell 

The silent story of the mind ; 



1 Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and 
passive principles of creation, and the universe is supposed 
to have received its first harmonizing impulse from the 
nuptial sympathy between these two powers. A marriage 
.is generally the first step in cosmogony. Timaeus held Form 
to be the father, and Matter the mother of the world ; Elion 
and Berouth, I think, are Sanchoniatho's first spiritual 
lovers, and Mancocapac and his wife introduced creation 
amongst the Peruvians. In short, Harlequin seems to have 
Ktu.Jied cosmogonies, when he said "tutto il mondo e fatto 
come la nostra famiglia." 



O'er Nature's form to glance the eye, 
And fix, by mimic light and shade, 

Her morning tinges, ere they fly, 
Her evening blushes, ere they fade ! 

These are the pencil's grandest theme, 

Divinest of the powers divine 
That light the Muse's flowery dream, 

And these, oh Prince ! are richly thine ! 

Yet, yet, when Friendship sees thee trace, 

In emanating soul express'd, 
The sweet memorial of a face 

On which her eye delights to rest ; 

While o'er the lovely look serene, 

The smile of Peace, the bloom of youth, 

The cheek, that blushes to be seen, 
The eye, that tells the bosom's truth ; 

While o'er each line, so brightly true, 
Her soul with fond attention roves, 

Blessing the hand, whose various hue 
Could imitate the form it loves ; 

She feels the value of thy art, 
And owns it with a purer zeal, 

A rapture, nearer to her heart, 
Than critic taste can ever feel ! 



THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS 1 

TO A LAMP WHICH WAS GIVEN HIM BY LAIS. 

Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna. 

Martial, Lib. xiv. Epig. 39. 

" Oh ! love the Lamp (my mistress said) 
The faithful Lamp that, many a night, 

Beside thy Lais' lonely bed . 
Has kept its little watch of light 

" Full often has it seen her weep, , 

And fix her eyes upon its flame, 
Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep, 

Repeating her beloved's name ! 

" Oft has it known her cheek to burn 

With recollections, fondly free, 
And seen her turn, impassion'd turn, 

To kiss the pillow, love ! for thee, 



1 It was not very difficult to become a philosopher 
amongst the ancients. A moderate store of learning, with 
a considerable portion of confidence, and wit enough to pro- 
duce an occasional apophthegm, were all the necessary 
qualifications for the purpose. The principles of moral 
science were so very imperfectly understood, that the foun- 
der of a new sect, in forming his ethical code, might consult 
either fancy or temperament, and adapt it to his own pas- 
sions and propensities; so that Mahomet, with a little more 
learning might have flourished as a philosopher in those 
days, and would have required but the polish of the schools 
to become the rival of Aristippus in morality. In the science 
of nature too, though they discovered some valuable truths, 
yet they seemed not to know they were truths, or at least 
were as well satisfied with errors ; and Xenophanes, who as- 
serted that the stars were igneous clouds, lighted up every 
night and extinguished again in the morning, was thought 
and styled a philosopher, as generally as he who anticipated 
Newton in developing the arrangement of the universe. 

For this opinion of Xenophanes, see Plutarch de Placii. 
Philosoph. lib. ii. cap. 13. It is impossible to read this treatisa 
of Plutarch, without alternately admiring and smiling at the 
genius, the absurdities of the philosophers 



126 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



And, in a murmur, wish thee there, 
That kiss to feel, that thought to share ! 

"Then love the Lamp — 'twill often lead 
Thy step through learning's sacred way ; 
And, lighted by its happy ray, 
Whene'er those darling eyes shall read 
Of things sublime, of Nature's birth 
Of all that 's bright in heaven or earth, 
Oh! think that she, by whom 'twas given, 
Adores thee more than earth or heaven !" 

Yes — dearest Lamp ! by every charm 
On which thy midnight beam has hung J 1 

The neck reclin'd, the graceful arm 
Across the brow of ivory flung ; 

The heaving bosom, partly hid, 
The sever'd lip's delicious sighs, 

The fringe, tb it from the snowy lid 
Along the cheek of roses lies : 

By these, by all that bloom untold, 
And long as all shall charm my heart, 

I'll love my little Lamp of gold, 
My Lamp and I shall never part ! 

And often, as she smiling said, 

In fancy's hour, thy gentle rays 
Shall guide my visionary tread 

Through poesy's enchanting maze ! 

Thy flame shall light the page refin'd, 
Where still we catch the Chian's breath, 
Where still the bard, though cold in death, 
Has left his burning soul behind ! 
Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine, 

Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades ! 2 
To whom the nightly-warbling Nine 3 

A wand of inspiration gave, 4 
Piuck'd from the greenest tree that shades 

The crystal of Castalia's wave. 
Then, turning to a purer lore, 
We'll cull the sages' heavenly store, 
From Science steal her golden clue, 
And e fery mystic path pursue, 
Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes 
Through labyrinths of wonder flies ! 

'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know 
The passing world's precarious flight, 

Where all, that meets the morning glow, 
Is chang'd before the fall of night ! 5 



1 The ancients bad their lucernas cubicularice, or bed- 
chamber lamps, which, as the Emperor Galienus said, "nil 
eras meminere, and with the same commendation of 
secrecy, Praxagora addresses her lamp, in Aristophanes, 
Ex/cx.));. We may judge how fanciful they were, in the use 
and embellishment of their lamps, from the famous symbolic 
Lucerna which we find in the Romanum Museum, Mich. 
Ang. Causei, p. 127. 

2 Hesiod, who tells us in melancholy terms of his father's 
fli?ht to the wretched village of Ascra. E py. *** H/*£p. 
r.25l. 

3 Ev!/u%i*i o"tu%ov, TreptxacKktx oo-o-av tturxi. — Theog. 
v 10. 

4 Kx« fioi a-XYiTrrpov jJov, J»ipvi)5 ep«3-JiXs se o£ov. Id. V. 30. 

5 P«'v raj oKx voTxpov Sixyv, as expressed among the 
dogmas of Heraclitus the Ephesian, and with the same 
anage by Seneca, in whom we find a beautiful diffusion of 
!he though* "Nemo est mane, qui fuit pridie. Corpora 



I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire, 

" Swift the tide of being runs, 
And Time, who bids thy flame expire, 

Will also quench yon heaven of suns I' 

Oh ! then if earth's united power 
Can never chain one feathery hour ; 
If every print we leave to-day 
To-morrow's wave shall steal away ; 
Who pauses, to inquire of Heaven 
Why were the fleeting treasures giv&n, 
The sunny days, the shady nights, 
And all their brief but dear delights, 
Which Heaven has made for man to use, 
And man should think it guilt to lose > 
Who, that has cull'd a weeping rose, 
Will ask it why it breathes and glows, 
Unmindful of the blushing ray, 
In which it shines its soul away ; 
Unmindful of the scented sigh, 
On which it dies and loves to die ? 

Pleasure ! thou only good on earth I 1 
One little hour resign'd to thee — 

Oh ! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worth, 
The sage's immortality ! 

Then far be all the wisdom hence, 
And all the lore, whose tame control 

Would wither joy with chill delays ! 

Alas ! the fertile fount of sense, 

At which the young, the panting soul 

Drinks life and love, too soon decays ! 

Sweet Lamp ! thou wert not form'd to saed 
Thy splendour on a lifeless page — 

Whate'er my blushing Lais said 
Of thoughtful lore and studies sage 

'Twas mockery all — her glance of joy 

Told me thy dearest, best employ ! 2 

And, soon as night shall close the eye 

Of Heaven's young wanderer in the west, 

When seers are gazing on the sky, 
To find their future orbs of rest ; 

Then shall I take my trembling way, 
Unseen, but to those worlds above, 



nostra rapiuntur fluminum more ; quicquid vides currit cum 
tempore. Nihil ex his quae videmus manet. Ego ipse, dum 
loquor mutari ipsa, mutatus sum," etc. 

1 Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happi- 
ness, in which idea he differed from the Epicureans, who 
looked to a state of repose as the only true voluptuousness 
and avoided even the too lively agitations of pleasure, as a 
violent and ungraceful derangement of the senses. 

2 Maupertuis has been still more explicit than this phi 
losopher, in ranking the pleasures of sense above the subli- 
mest pursuits of. wisdom. Speaking of the infant man, in 
his production, he calls him, " une nouvelle creature, qui 
pourra comprendre les choses les plus sublimes, et ce qui 
est bien au-dessus, qui pourra gouter les memes plaisirs." 
See his Venus Physique. This appears to be one of the 
efforts at Fonteneile's gallantry of manner, for which the 
learned President is so well ridiculed in the Akakia of 
Voltaire. 

Maupertuis may be- thought to have borrowed from the 
ancient Aristippus that indiscriminate theory of pleasures 
which he has set forth in his Essai de Philosophic Morale^ 
and for which he was so very justly condemned. ArMruupas, 
according to Laertius, held m SixQtpBiv t* ySivqv n$ov>)f t 
which irrational sentiment has been adopted by Maupertuis; 
"Tant qu'on ne considere que l'etat present, tous Jes 
plaisirs sont du meme genre," ect. ect. 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 127 


And, led by thy mysterious ray, 


Yet Innocence, whene'er he came, 


Glide to the pillow of my love. 


Would tremble for her spotless book ! 


Calm be her sleep, the gentle dear ! 


For still she saw his playful fingers 


Nor let her dream of bliss so near, 


Fill'd with sweets and wanton toys ; 


Till o'er her cheek she thrilling feel 


And well she knew the stain that lingers 


My sighs of fire in murmurs steal, 


After sweets from wanton boys ! 


And I shall lift the locks, that flow 




Unbraided o'er her lids of snow, 


And so it chanc'd, one luckless night 


And softly kiss those sealed eyes, 


He let his honey goblet fall 


And wake her into sweet surprise ! 


O'er the dear book, so pure, so white, 




And sullied lines and marge and all ! 


Or if she dream, oh ! let her dream 


Of those delights we both have known 


In vain he sought, with eager lip, 


And felt so truly, that they seem 


The honey from the leaf to drink, 


Form'd to be felt by us alone ! 


For still the more the boy would sip, 


And I shall mark her kindling cheek, 


The deeper still the blot would sink ! 


Shall see her bosom warmly move, 




And hear her faintly, lowly speak 


Oh ! it would make you weep to see 


The murmur'd sounds so dear to love ! 


The traces of this honey flood 


Oh ! I shall gaze, till even the sigh, 


Steal o'er a page where Modesty 


That wafts her very soul, be nigh, 


Had freshly drawn a rose's bud ! 


And when the nymph is all but blest, 
Sink in her arms and share the rest ! 


And Fancy's emblems lost their glow, 


Sweet Lais ! what an age of bliss 
In that one moment waits for me ! 


And Hope's sweet lines were all defac'd, 


And Love himself could scarcely know 


Oh sages ! think on joy like this, 


What Love himself had lately trac'd ! 


And where's your boast of apathy ! 


At length the urchin Pleasure fled, 




(For how, alas ! could pleasure stay ?) 




And Love, while many a tear he shed, 


TO MRS. BL— H— D. 


In blushes flung the book away ! 


WRITTEN IN HER ALBJM. 


The index now alone remains, 





Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, 


T»T0 Ss T« (CTTt TO 7T0r0V ; jrA.MV>J, £$«(. 


And though it bears some honey stains, 


Cebetis Tabula. 


Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure ! 


They say that Love had once a book, 


And oft, they say, she scans it o'er, 


(The urchin likes to copy you,) 


And oft, by this memorial aided, 


Where, all who came the pencil took, 


Brings back the pages now no more, 


And wrote, like us, a line or two. 


And thinks of lines that long have faded ! 


'Twas Innocence, the maid divine, 


I know not if this tale be true, 


Who kept this volume bright and fair, 


But thus the simple facts are stated ; 


And saw that no unhallow'd line, 


And I refer their truth to you, 


Or thought profane should enter there 


Since Love and you are near related ! 


And sweetly did the pages fill 




With fond device and loving lore, 


™ 


And every leaf she turn'd was still 




More bright than that she turn'd before '. 


EPISTLE VII. 


Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft, 


TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ. M. D. , 


How light the magic pencil ran ! 




Till Fear would come, alas ! as oft, 


FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON. 


And trembling close what Hope began 







AIHT/HSOMAI AIHr/HMATA ISHS AITIXTA, KOIN£2KA 


A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief, 


iiN IIEIION0A OTK EXIiN. 


And Jealousy would, now and then, 


Xenophont. Ephes. Ephesiac. lib ». 


Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf, 





Which Love had still to smooth again ! 


'Tis evening now ; the heats and cares of day 


But, oh ! there was a blooming boy, 


In twilight dews are calmly wept away 


Who often turn'd the pages o'er, 
And wrote therein such words of joy, 


The lover now, beneath the western star, 


Sighs through the medium of his sweet segar, 


As all who read still sigh'd for more. 


And fills the ears of some consenting she 




With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy I 


And Pleasure was this spirit's name, 


The weary statesman for repose hath fled f/ 


And though so soft his voice and look, 


From halls of council to his negro's shed, 



128 



MOORE'S WORKS 



Where blest he woos some black Aspasia's grace, 
And dreams of freedom in his slave's embrace !' 

•• In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom, 

Come, let me lead thee o'er this modern Rome ! 2 
Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow, 
And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now ! 3 — 
This fam'd metropolis, where fancy sees 
Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees ; 
Which travelling fools and gazetteers adorn 
W T ith shrines unbuilt, and heroes yet unborn, 
Though nought but wood 4 and ******** they see, 
Where streets should run, and sages ought to be ! 

And look, how soft in yonder radiant wave, 

The dying sun prepares his golden grave ! — 

Oh great Potomac ! oh you banks of shade ! 

You mighty scenes, in nature's morning made, 

While still, in rich magnificence of prime, 

She pour'd her wonders, lavishly sublime, 

Nor yet had learn'd to stoop with humbler care, 

From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair ! 

Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods, 

Your rich savannas, and majestic woods, 

Where bards should meditate, and heroes rove, 

And woman charm, and man deserve her love ! 

Oh ! was a world so bright but born to grace 

Its own half-organiz'd, half-minded race 5 



1 The " black Aspasia" of the present ********* of the 
United Slates, " inter Avernales haud ignotissim'a nymphas" 
has given rise to much pleasantry among the anti-democrat 
wits in America. 

2 " On the original location of the ground now allotted 
for the seat of the Federal City (says Mr. Weld,) the iden- 
tical spot on which the capitol now stands was called Rome. 
This anecdote is related by many as a certain prognostic of 
the future magnificence of this city, which is to be, as it 
were, a second Rome." — Weld's Travels, Letter iv. 

3 A little stream that runs through the city, which with 
intolerable affectation, they have styled the Tiber. It was 
originally called Goose-Creek. 

4 " To be under the necessity of going through a deep 
wood for one or two miles, perhaps, in order to see a next 
door neighbour, and in the same city, is a curious, and I be- 
lieve a novel circumstance." — Weld, LeUer iv. 

The Federal City (if it must be called a city,)' has not 
been much increased since Mr. Weld visited it. Most of the 
public buildings, which were then in some degree of forward- 
ness, have been since utterly suspended. The Hotel is al- 
ready a ruin; a great part of its roof has fallen in, and the 
rooms are left to be occupied gratuitously by the miserable 
Scotch and Irish emigrants. The President's House, a very 
noble structure, is by no means suited to the philosophical 
humility of its present possessor, who inhabits but a corner of 
the mansion himself, and abandons the rest to a state of un- 
cleanly desolation, which those who are not philosophers 
cannot look at without regret. This grand edifice is en- 
circled by a very rude pale, through which a common rustic 
stile introduces the visitors of the first man in America. 
With respect to all that is in the house, I shall imitate the 
prudent forbearance of Herodotus, and say, t« St iv ajrop- 

The private buildings exhibit the same characteristic dis- 
play of arrogant speculation and premature ruin, and the 
few ranges of houses which were begun some years ago, 
have remained so long waste and unfinished, that they are 
now for the most part dilapidated. 

5 Tlu picture which Buffon and De Pauw have drawn 
of the American Indian, though very humiliating, is, as tar 
as 1 can judge, much more correct than the fluttering repre- 
sentations which Mr. Jefferson has given us. See the Notes 
on Virginia., where this gentleman endeavours to disprove 
in general, the opinion maintained so strongly by some phi- 
losophers, that nature (as Mr. Jefferson expresses it,) belit- 
tles her productions in the western world. M. de Pauw 
attributes the imperfection of animal life in America to the 
ravages of a very recent deluge, from whose effects upon its 
soil and atmosphere it has not yet sufficiently recovered. 
See his Recherchcs sur les Americains, Part i. torn. i. p. 102. 



Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breasc, 
Like vermin, gender'd on the lion's crest ? 
Were none but brutes to call that soil their home, 
Where none but demi-gods should dare to roam? 
Or worse, thou mighty world ! oh ! doubly \sor a e, 
Did Heaven design thy lordly land to nurse 
The motly dregs of every distant clime, 
Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime 
Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere, 
In full malignity to rankle here ? 

But hush .'—observe that little mount of pines, s 
Where the breeze murmurs, and the fire-fly shines 
There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief, 
The sculptur'd image of that veteran chief, 1 
Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name, 
And stept o'er prostrate loyalty to fame ; 
Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train 
Cast off their monarch, that the mob might reign 
How shall we rank thee upon glory's page ? 
Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage ! 
Too form'd for peace to act a conqueror's part, 
Too train'd in camps to learn a statesman's art — 
Nature design'd thee for a hero's mould, 
But ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold ! 
While warmer souls command, nay, make their fate, 
Thy fate made thee, and fore'd thee to be great. 
Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds 
Her brightest halo round the weakest heads. 
Found thee undazzled, tranquil as before, 
Proud to be useful, scorning to be more ; 
Less prompt at glory's than at duty's claim, 
Renown the meed, but self applause the aim ; 
All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, 
Far less, tha:: all thou hast forborne to be ! 

Now turn thine eye where faint the moonlight falls, 
On yonder dome — and in those princely halls, 
If thou canst hate, as, oh ! that soul must ha-te, 
Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great, 
If thou canst loathe and execrate with me 
That Gallic garbage of philosophy, 
That nauseous slaver of these frantic times, 
With which false liberty dilutes her crimes ! 
If thou hast got within thy free-born breast, 
One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest, 
With honest scorn for that inglorious soul, 
Which creeps and winds beneath a mob's control, 
Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod, 
And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god ! 
There, in those walls — but, burning tongue, forbear 
Rank must be reverene'd, even the rank that's there 
So here I pause — and now, my Hume ! we part ; 
But oh ! full oft, in magic dreams of heart, 
Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear 
By Thames at home, or by Potomac here ! * 

O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs, 
Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs, 
Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes 
With me shall wonder, and with me despise ! 2 



1 On a small hill near the capitol, there is to be an eques 
trian statue of General Washington. 

2 In the ferment which the French revolution excited 
among the democrats of America, and the licentious sym- 
pathy with which they shared in the wildest excesses of 
jacobinism, we may find one source of that vulgarity of 
vice, that hostility «o ali the graces of life, which distio 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



J 29 



VVhile I, as oft, in witching thought shall rove 
To thee, to friendship, and that land I love, 
VVhere, like the air that fans her fields of green, 
Her freedom spreads, unfever'd and serene ; 
Where sovereign man can condescend to see 
The throne and laws more sovereign still than he ! 



THE SNAKE. 

1301. 

My love and I, the other day, 
Within a myrtle arbour lay, 
Wlien near us from a rosy bed, 
A little Snake pu* forth its head. 

" See," said the maid, with laughing eyes — 
" Yonder the fatal emblem lies ! 
Who could expf ot such hidden harm 
Beneath the rose's velvet charm ? 

Never did mortal thought occur 

In more unlucky hour than this ; 
For oh ! I just was leading her 

To talk of love and think of bliss. 

I rose to kill the snake, but she 
In pity pray'd, it might not be. 

"No," said the girl — and many a spark 

Flash'd from her eyelid, as she said it — 
" Under the rose, or in the dark, 

One might, perhaps, have cause to dread it ; 
But when its wicked eyes appear, 

And when we know for what they wink so, 
One must be very simple, dear, 

To let it sting one — don't you think so ?" 



LINES, 

WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA. 

rqvSs T/jv 7T0\iv CptKaoi 



Sophocl. GLdip. Colon v. 758. 

Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer rov'd, 
And bright were its flowery banks to his eye ; 

But far, very far were the friends that he lov'd, 
And he gaz'd on its flowery banks with a sigh ! 

Oh, nature ! though blessed and bright are thy rays, 
O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown, 

Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays 
In a smile from the heart that is dearly our own ! 



guishes the present demagogues of the United States, and 
has become indeed too generally the characteristic of their 
countrymen. Rut there is another cause of the corruption 
of private morals, which, encouraged as it is by the govern- 
ment, and identified with the interests of the community, 
seems to threaten the decay of all honest principle in Ame- 
rica. I allude to those fraudulent violations of neutrality 
to which they are indebted for the most lucrative part of 
their commerce, and by which they have so long infringed 
and counteracted the maritime rights and advantages of 
this country This unwarrantable trade is necessarily abet- 
ted by such a system of collusion, imposture, and perjury, 
as cannot fail to spread rapid contamination around it. 
R 



Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain 

Unbless'd by the smile he had languish' d to meet : 
Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him 
again, 
Till the threshold of home had been kiss'd by his 
feet! 

But the lays of his boy-hood had stol'n o their ear, 
And they lov'd what they knew of so humble a 
name, 
And they told him, with flattery welcome anu dear, 
That they found in his heart something sweeter 
than fame ! 

Nor did woman — oh, woman ! whose form and whose 
soul 

Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue ! 
Whether sunn'd in the tropics or chill'd at the pole. 

If woman be there, there is happiness too ! 

Nor did she her enamouring magic deny, • 
That magic his heart had rehnquish'd so long, 

Like eyes he had loved was her eloquent eye, 
Like them did it soften and weep at his song. 

Oh ! ble^js'd be the tear, and in memory oft 

May its sparkle be shed o'er his wandering dream 

Oh ! blest be that eye, and may passion as soft, 
As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam! 

The stranger is gone — but he will not forget, 

When at home he shall talk of the tcil lie has 
known, 

To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met. 
As he stray' d by the wave of the Schuylkill alone! 



THE FALL OF HEBE. 

A DITHYRAMBIC ODE. 1 

'Twas on a day 
When the immortals at their banquet lay; 
The bowl 
Sparkled with starry dew, 
The weeping of those myriad urns of light, 
Within whose orbs, the almighty Power, 
At Nature's dawning hour, 



1 Though I call this a Dithyrambic Ode, I cannot presume 
to say that it possesses, in any degree, the characteristics of 
that species of poetry. The nature of the ancient Dithy- 
rambic is very imperfectly known. According to M. Bu- 
rette, a licentious irregularity of metre, an extravagant 
research of thought and expression, and a rude embarrassed 
construction, are among its most distinguishing features. 
He adds, "Ces caracteres des dilyrambes se font sentir a 
ceux qui lisent attentivement les odes de Pindare." Me- 
moires de VAcad. vol. x. p. 306. And the same opinion may 
be collected from Schmidt's dissertation upon the subject. 
But I think if the Dithyrambics of Pindar were in our pos- 
session, we should find, that, however wild and fanciful, 
they were by no means the tasteless jargon they are repre- 
sented, and that even their irregularity was what Boiieau 
calls " un beau desordre." Chiabrera, who has been styled 
the Pindar of Italy, and from whom all its poetry upon the 
Greek model was called Chiabreresco (as Crescimbeni in- 
forms us, Lib. i. cap. 12.) has given amongst his Vendera 
mie, a Dithyrambic, " all' uso de' Greci :" it is full of those 
compound epithets which, we are told, were a chief charac- 
ter of the style (<ruv3-«TOu5 Ss Ktfytt; istoioui/. SuiD A»:rv 1 Js6 i u- 
fioSiS;) such as 

Briglindorato Pcgaso 

Nubicalpestator. 
But I cannot suppose that Pindar, even amidst all the li- 



J30 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Stor'd the rich fluid of ethereal soul I 1 

Around, 
Soft odorous clouds, that upward wing their flight 

From eastern isles 
(Where they have bathed them in the orient ray, 
And with fine fragrance all their bosoms fill'd,) 
In circles flew, and, melting as they flew, 
A liquid day-break o'er the board distill'd ! 

All, all was luxury 

All must be luxury, where Lyaeus smiles! 
His locks divine 
Were crown'd 
With a bright meteor-braid, 
Which, like an ever-springing wreath of vine, 

Shot into brilliant leafy shapes, 
And o'er his brow in lambent tendrils play'd ! 
While 'mid the foliage hung, 
Like lucid grapes, 
A thousand clustering blooms of light, 
Cull'd from the gardens of the galaxy ! 
Upon his bosom Cytherea's head 
Lay lovely, as wnen first the Syrens sung 

Her beauty's dawn, 
And all the curtains of the deep, undrawn, 
Reveal'd her sleeping in its azure bed. 
The captive deity 
Languish'd upon her eyes and lip, 
In chains of ecstacy ! 

Now in his arm, 
In blushes she reposed, 
And, while her zone resign'd its every charm, 
To shade his burning eyes her hand in dalliance stole; 
And now she raised her rosy mouth to sip 
The nectar'd wave 
Lyaeus gave, 
And from her eyelids, gently closed, 
Shed a dissolving gleam, 
Which fell, like sun-dew, in the bowl ! 
While her bright hair, in mazy flow 

Of gold descending 
Along her cheek's luxurious glow, 
Waved o'er the goblet's side, 
And was reflected by its crystal tide, 

Like a sweet crocus flower, 
Whose sunny leaves, at evening hour, 
With roses of Cyrene blending, 2 



cense of dithyrambics, would ever have descended to ballad- 
language like the following : 

Bella Filli, e bella Clori 
Non piu dar pregio a tue bellezze e taci, 
Che se Bacco fa vezzi alle mie labbra 
Fo le ficbe a' vostri baci. 

■ esser vorrei Coppier, 

E se f roppo desiro 
Deh fossi io Bottiglier. 

Rime del Chiabrera, part ii. p. 352. 

1 This is a Platonic fancy: the philosopher supposes, in 
his Timseus, that, when the Deity had formed the soul of the 
world, he proceeded to the composition of other souls ; in 
which process, says Plato, he made use of the same cup, 
though the ingredients he mingled were not quite so pure as 
for the former ; and having refined the mixture with a little 
of his own essence, he distributed it amc-ngst the stars which 
gerved as reservoirs of the fluid. Taut-' inri xai irxkiv 

t'JTt TOV jrpOTtfJOV Y.fl».TY\fX ev (O TJfV TOO STsevTOf $V%VIV XI. 

»«i/vuc ty.to-ye, x. t. X. 

2 We learr. from Theophrastus, that the roses of Cyrene 
were particularly fragrant. Evoo7*ot*t* t* St rx ev Ku- 

«,#»! fo$x 



The Olympian cup 
Burn'd in the hands 
Of dimpled Hebe, as she wing'd her feet 
Up 
The empyreal mount, 
To drain the soul-drops at their stellar fount ; 1 
And still, 
As the resplendent rill 
Flamed o'er the goblet with a mantling heat, 
Her graceful care 
Would cool its heavenly fire 
In gelid waves of snowy-feather'd air, 
Such as the children of the pole respire, 
In those enchanted lands 2 
Where life is all a spring and north winds never blow? 
But oh ! 
Sweet Hebe, what a tear 
And what a blush were thine, 
When, as the breath of every Grace 
Wafted thy fleet career 
Along the studded sphere, 
With a rich cup for Jove himself to drink 
Some star, that glitter'd in the way, 
Raising its amorous head 
To kiss so exquisite a tread, 
Check'd thy impatient pace ! 
And all Heaven's host of eyes , 

Saw those luxuriant beauties sink 
In lapse of loveliness, along the azure' skies ! 3 

Upon whose starry plain they lay, 
Like a young blossom on our meads of gold, 

Shed from a vernal thorn 
Amid the liquid sparkles of the morn ! 
Or, as in temples of the Paphian shade, 
The myrtled votaries of the queen behold 
An image of their rosy idol, laid 
Upon a diamond shrine ! 
The wanton wind, 
Which had pursued the flying fair, 

And sweetly twin'd 
Its spirit with the breathing rings v 
Of her ambrosial hair, 



1 Heraclitus (Physicus) held the soul to be a spark of the 
stellar essence. " Scintilla stellaris essentia?." — Jtfacrobius, 
in Somn. Scip. Lib. i. cap. 14. 

2 The country of the Hyperboreans ; they were supposed 
to be placed so far noTth, that the north wind could not af- 
fect them ; they lived longer than any other mortals ; passed 
their whole time in music and dancing, etc. etc. But the 
most extravagant fiction related of them is that to which the 
two lines preceding allude. It was imagined, that instead 
of our /ulgar atmosphere, the Hyperboreans breathed 
nothing but feathers ! According to Herodotus and Pliny, 
this idea was suggested by the quantity of snow which was 
observed to fall in those regions ; thus the former : T* a>v 

Trrspx Eixa^ovra? TV\V %»0V5S TOUJ ZlCllS'SCf TE KXi TOU? •»■*- 

piomoof Soxsu) \syav. — Herodot.Wb.'w. cap. 31. Ovid tells 
the fable otherwise. See Mctamorph. lib. xv. 

Mr. O'Halloran, and some other Irish Antiquarians, have 
been at great expense of learning to prove that the strange 
country, where they took snow for feathers, was Ireland, 
and that the famous Abaris was an Irish Druid. Mr. Row- 
land, however, will have it that Abaris was a Welshman, 
and that his name is only a corruption of Ap Rees !' 

3 I believe it is Servius who mentions this unlucky trip 
which Hebe made in her occupation of cup-bearer; and 
Hoffman tells it after him; "Cum Hebe pocula Jovi admi- 
nistrans, perque lubricum minus caute incedens, cecidisset 
revolutisque vestibus" — in short, she fell in a very awkward 
manner, and though (as the Encyclopedist.es think) it would 
have amused Jove at any other time, yet, as he happened 
to be out of temper on that day, the poor girl was dismissed 
from her emplovment. 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



131 



Soar'd as she fell, and on i's ruffling wings, 

(Oh wanton wind !) 

Wafted the robe, whose sacred flow, 

Shadow'd her kindling charms of snow, 

Pure, as an Eleusinian veil 

Hangs o'er the mysteries I 1 
* * * * 

• the brow of Juno flushed— 
Love bless'd the breeze ! 
The Muses blush'd, 
And every cht*ek was hid behind a lyre, 
While every eye was glancing through the strings. 
Drops of ethereal dew, 
That burning gush'd, 
As the great goblet flew 
From Hebe's Dearly fingers through the sky ! 
Who was the spirit that remember'd Man 
In that voluptuous hour ? 

And with a wing of Love 
Brush'd off your scatter'd tears, 
As o'er the spangled heaven they ran, 
And sent them floating to our orb below ! 2 
Essence of immortality ! 

The shower 
Fell glowing through the spheres 
While all around new tints of bliss, 
New perfumes of delight, 
Enrich'd its radiant flow ! 

Now, with a humid kiss, 
It thrill'd along the beamy wire 
Of Heaven's illumin'd lyre, 3 
Stealing the soul of music in its flight ! 
And now, amid the breezes bland, 
That whisper from the planets as they roll, 
The bright libation, softly fann'd 
By all their sighs, meandering stole ! 
They who, from Atlas' height, 

Beheld the hill of flame 
Descending through the waste of night, 
Thought 'twas a planet, whose stupendous frame 

Had kindled, as it rapidly revolv'd 
Around its fervid axle, and dissolv'd 
Into a flood so bright! 
The child of day, 
Within his twilight bower, 
Lay sweetly sleeping 
On the flush'd bosom of a lotos-flower:' 1 



1 The arcane symbols of this ceremony were deposited in 
the cista, where they lay religiously concealed from the eyes 
of the profane. They were generally carried in the proces 
Bion by an ass; and hence the proverb, which one may so 
often apply in the world, " asinus portat mysteria." See 
the Divine Legation, Book ii. sect. 4. 

2 In the ffeoponica, Lib. ii. cap. 17, thore is a fable some 
what like this descent of the nectar to earth. E-v ovpxvM 
tujv 3-sojv £Uco%3u/i6Vtt)f, %xt too vEX-rapo? 7ro\Xov 7rxpxy.sift.s- 
vov, avxa-xtpTyc-ctt %op£ia tov EpcoTa xxt o-u<r<rsi<re<» tco 

!TTSp«) TOO xpaTVlpOJ TS)V $XTIV, X3SI TTEplTpS ^ *' f*tV CtUTOV 

to Si vsv.Txp stg Tijv yy\v exxti&v, x. t. a.. See Auclor. dc 
Re Rust, edit. Contab. 1704. 

3 The constellation Lyra. The astrologers attribute 
great virtues to this sign in ascendenti, which are enume- 
rated by Pontano, in his Urania: 

Ecce novem cum pectine chordas 

Emodulans, mulcet que novo vaga sidera cantu, 
Quo captae naacentum animae concordia ducunt 
Pectora, etc. 

4 The Egyptians represented the dawn of day by a young 
hoy seated upon a lotos. E<ts Ai^uttts? tvpxxwf xpxnv 
av'xro\>i( srxi$sov vtoyiov ypx<fovT»i £7rt Kuitui xx2rt£oy.ivov. 



When round him, in profusion weeping, 
Dropp'd the celestial shower, 

Steeping 
The rosy clouds, that curl'd 
About his infant head, 
Like myrrh upon the locks of Cupid shed ! 

But, when the waking boy 
Waved his exhaling tresses through the sky, 
O morn of joy ! 
The tide divine, 
All glittering with the vermeil dye 
It drank beneath his orient eye, 
Distill' d in dews upon the world, 
And every drop was wine, was heavenly wine ' 

Bless'd be the sod, the flow'ret blest, 
That caught, upon their hallow'd breast, 
The nectar'd spray of Jove's perennial springs ! 
Less sweet the flow'ret, and less sweet the sod 
O'er which the Spirit of the rainbow flings 
The magic mantle of her solar god ! ' 



TO 



That wrinkle, when first I espied it, 
At once put my heart out of pain, 

Till the eye that was glowing beside it 
Disturb'd my ideas again ! 

Thou art just in the twilight at present 
When woman's declension begins, 

When, fading from all that is pleasant. 
She bids a good night to her sins ! 

Yet thou still art so lovely to me, 

I would sooner, my exquisite mother ! 

Repose in the sunset of thee 
Than bask in the noon of another! 



ANACREONTIC. 

" She never look'd so kind before — 
Yet why the wanton's smile recall ! 

I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er, 
'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all !" 

Thus I said, and, sighing, sipp'd 

The wine which she had lately tasted 

The cup, where she had lately dipp'd 
Breath, so long in falsehood wasted. • 

I took the harp, and would have sung 
As if 'twere not of her I sang ; 



Plutarch, reft t» ha xpxv eftfisrp. See also his treatise 
Tsid. et Osir. Observing that, the lotos showed its head 
above water at sun-rise, and sank again at his setting, they 
conceived the idea of consecrating it to Osiris, or the sun. 

This symbol of a youth sitting upon a lotos, is very fre- 
quent on the Abraxases, or Rasilidian stones. See Mont- 
faucon, Tom. ii. planche 158, and the Supplement, etc. 
Tom. ii. lib. vii. chap. 5. 

1 The ancients esteemed those flowers ana trees tlio 
sweetest upon which the rainbow had appeared to rest, and 
the wood they chiefly burned in sacrifices, was that which 
the smile of Iris had consecrated. — Plutarch Synipos. Lib 
iv. cap. 2, where (as Vossius remarks) x*«so-» ( instead of 
kxmti, is undoubtedly the genuine reading. See Vossius 
for some curious particularities of the rainbow, De Origin 
et Progress, Idololat. Lib. iii. cap. 13. 



loa 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



But still the notes on Lamia hung — 
On whom DUt Lamia could they hang ! 

That kiss, for whicn, if worlds were mine, 
A world for every kiss I'd give her ; 

Those floating eyes, that floating shine 
Like diamonds in an eastern river ! 

That mould so fine, so pearly bright, 

Of which luxurious Heaven hath cast her, 

Through which her soul doth beam as white 
As flame through lamps of alabaster ! 

Of these I sung, and notes and words 
Were sweet as if 'twas Lamia's hair 

That lay upon my lute for chords, 
And Lamia's lip that warbled there ! 

But when, alas ! I turn'd the theme, 
And when of vows and oaths 1 spoke, 

Of truth, and hope's beguiling dream— 
The chord beneath my finger broke ! 

False harp ! false woman ! — such, oh ! such 
Are lutes too frail and maids too willing ; 

Every hand's licentious touch 
Can learn to wake their wildest thrilling ! 

And when that thrill is most awake, 

And when you think heaven's joys await you, 

The nymph will change, the chord will break — 
Oh Love ! oh Music ! how I hate you ! 



TO MRS. 



ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER. 

Is not thy mind a gentle mind ? 

Is not thy heart a heart refin'd ? 

Hast thou not every blameless grace, 

That man should love, or Heaven can trace ? 

And oh ! art thou a shrine for Sin 

To hold her hateful worship in ? 

No, no, be happy — dry that tear — 

Though some thy heart hath harbour'd near 

May now repay its love with blame ! 

Though man, who ought to shield thy fame, 

Ungenerous man, be first to wound thee ! 

Though the whole world may freeze around thee. 

Oli ! thou'lt be like that lucid tear, 1 

Which, bright, within the crystal's sphere 

In liquid purity was found, 

Though all had grown congeal'd around ; 

Floating in frost, it mock'd the chill, 

vVas pure, was soft, was brilliant still. 



HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI, 

AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER. 

Oh ! lost, for ever lost ! — no more 

Shall Vesper light our dewy way 
Along the rocks of Crissa's shore, 

To hymn the fading fires of day ! 

1 This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian 
has left un some pointless epigrams. It was a drop of pure 
water inclosed within a piece of crystal. See Claudian. 
Epigram, de Chrystallo cui aqua inerat. Addison men- 
tions a curiosity of this kind at Milan. He says, " It is such 



No more to Tempe's distant vale 

In holy musings shall we roam, 
Through summer's glow, and winter's ga]e, 

To bear the mystic chaplets home I 1 
'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal, 

By nature warm'd and led by thee, 
In every breeze was taught to feel 

The breathings of a deity ! 
Guide of my heart ! to memory true, 

Thy looks, thy words, are still my own 
I see thee raising from the dew, 

Some laurel, by the wind o'erthrown, 
And hear thee say, " This humble bough 

Was planted for a doom divine, 
And, though it weep in languor now, 

Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine ! 
Thus, in the vale of earthly sense, 

Though sunk awhile the spirit lies, 
A viewless hand shall cull it thence, 

To bloom immortal in the skies !" 

Thy words had such a melting flow, 

And spoke of truth so sweetly well, 
They dropp'd like heaven's serenest snow, 

And all was brightness where they fell ! 
Fond soother of my infant tear ! 

Fond sharer of my infant joy ! 
Is not thy shade still lingering here ? 

Am I not still thy soul's employ ? 
And oh ! as oft, at close of day 

When, meeting on the sacred mount, 
Our nymphs awak'd the choral lay, 

And danc'd around Cassotis' fount; 
As then, 'twas all thy wish and care, 

That mine should be the simplest mien, 
My lyre and voice the sweetest there, 

My foot the lightest o'er the green ; 
So still, each little grace to mould, 

Around my form thine eyes are shed, 
Arranging every snowy fold, 

And guiding every mazy tread ! 
And, when I lead the hymning choir, 

Thy spirit still, unseen and free. 
Hovers between my lip and lyre, 

And weds them into harmony .' 
Flow, Plistus, flow ! thy murmuring wave 

Shall never drop its silvery tear 
Upon so pure, so blest a grave, 

To memory so divinely dear 1 



RINGS AND SEALS. 



Achilles Tatius, Lib. ii. 

" Go !" said the angry weeping maid, 
u The charm is broken ! — once betray'd, 

a rarity as this that I saw at Vendome in France, which 
they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shod over La- 
zarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it in a little 
crystal vial and made a present of it to Mary Magdalene." 
— Addison's Remarks on several Parts of Italy. 

1 The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for 
adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was sup- 
plied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia. But upon all 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC 



133 



Oh ! never can my heart rely 
On word or look, on oath or sigh. 
Take back the gifts, so sweetly given, 
With promis'd faith and vows to Heaven ; 
That little ring, which, night and morn, 
With wedded truth my hand hath worn ; 
That seal which oft, in moment blest, 
Thou hast upon my lip imprest, 
And sworn its dewy spring should be 
A fountain seal'cf for only thee ! 
Tike, take them back, the gift and vow, 
All sullied, lost, and hateful, now !" 

I took the ring — the seal I took, 
While oh ! her every tear and look 
Were such as angels look and shed, 
When man is by the world misled ! 
Gently I whisper' d, " Fanny, dear ! 
Not half thy lovers gifts are here : 
Say, where are all the seals he gave 
To every ringlet's jetty wave, 
And where is every one he printed 
Upon that lip, so ruby-tinted — ■ 
Seals of the purest gem of bliss, 
Oh ! richer, softer, far than this ! 

" And then the ring — my love ! recall 
How many rings delicious all, 
His arms around that neck hath twisted, 
Twining warmer far than this did ! 
Where are they all, so sweet, so many ? 
Oh ! dearest, give back all, if any !" 

While thus I murmur'd, trembling too 
Lest all the nymph had vow'd was true, 
I saw a smile relenting rise 
Mid the moist azure of her eyes, 
Like day-light o'er a sea of blue, 
While yet the air is dim with dew ! 
She let her cheek repose on mine, 
She let my arms around her. twine — 
Oh ! who can tell the bliss one feels 
In thus exchanging rings and seals ! 



TO MISS SUSAN B— CKF— D. 

HER SINGING. 

I more than once have heard, at night, 
A song, like those thy lips have given, 

And it was sung by shapes of light, 
Who seem'd, like thee, to breathe of heaven ! 

But this was all a dream of sleep, 

And I have said, when morning shone, 



important occasions, they sent to Tempe lor their laurel. 
We find in Pausanias, that this valley supplied the branches, 
■if which the temple was originally constructed ; and Plu- 
tarch says, in his Dialogue un Music, "The youth who 
brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a 
slayer on the flute." A\x« i&w x«< r« **T«xofti£awTi 7rxi8t 

Tviv~Ttf*7rix.yiv Sxsvqv nq AeX$8$ irapa/txpTBi osu\tjT>fS. 

1 " There are gardens, supposed to be those of King Solo- 
mon, in the neighbourhood of Bethlehem. The friars show 
a fountain which they say is the ' sealed fountain,' to which 
•he holy spouse in the Canticles is compared ; and they pre- 
tend a tradition, that Solomon shut up these springs aiid put 
his signet upon the door, to keep them for his own drinking." 
—MaundreWs Travels. See also the Notes to Mr. Good's 
Translation of the Sung of Solomon. 



" Oh ! why should fairy Fancy keep 
These wonders for herself alone V* 

I knew not then that Fate had lent 
Such tones to one of mortal birth ; 

I knew not then that Heaven had sent 
A voice, a form like thine on oinh, ' 

And yet, in all that flowery maze 

Through which my life has lov'd to tread. 
When I have heard the sweetest lays 

From lips of dearest lustre shed ; 

When I have felt the warbled word 

From Beauty's mouth of perfume sighing, 

Sweet as music's hallow'd bird 
Upon a rose's bosom lying ! 

Though form and song at once combin'd 
Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill, 

My heart hath sigh'd, my heart hath pin'd 
For something softer, lovelier still ! 

Oh ! I have found it all, at last, 
In thee, thou sweetest, living lyre, 

Through which the soul hath ever pass'd 
Its harmonizing breath of fire ! 

All that my best and wildest dream, 
In Fancy's hour, could hear or see 

Of Music's sigh or Beauty's beam 
Are realiz'd, at once, in thee 1 



LINES, 

WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALL? OP 
THE MOHAWK RIVER. 1 



Gia era in loco ove s'udia '1 rimbombo 

Dell' acqua. * * * Dante. 

From rise of morn till set of sun, 

I've seen the mighty Mohawk run, 

And as I mark'd the woods of pine 

Along his mirror darkly shine, 

Like tall and gloomy forms that pass 

Before the wizard's midnight glass; 

And as I view'd the hurrying pace 

With which he ran his turbid race, 

Rushing, alike untir'd and wild, 

Through shades that frown'd, and flowers tha. 

smil'd, 
Flying by every green recess 
That woo'd him to its calm caress, 
Yet, sometimes turning with the wind, 
As if to leave one look behind ! 



1 There is a dreary and savage character in the country 
immediately above these Falls, which is much more in har- 
mony with the wildness of such a scene, than the cultivated 
lands in the neighbourhood of Niagara. See the drawing 
of them in Mr. Weld's book. According to him, the per- 
pendicular height of the Cohos Falls is fifty feet; but tho 
Marquis de Chastellux makes it seventy-six. 

The fine rainbow, which is continually forming and dis- 
solving as the spray rises into the light of the sun, is per- 
haps the most interesting bsauty which these wonderful 
cataracts exhibit. 



134 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Oh ! I have thought, and thinking, sigh'd- 
Ho w like t d thee, thou restless tide ! 
May be the lot, the life of him, 
Who roams along thy water's brim ! 
Through what alternate shades of woe, 
And flowers of joy my path may go ! 
How many a humble still retreat 
May rise to court my weary feet, 
While still pursuing, still unblest, 
I wander on, nor dare to rest ! 
But, urgent as the doom that calls 
Thy water to its destin'd falls, 
I see the world's bewildering force 
Hurry my heart's devoted course 
From lapse to lapse, till life be done, 
And the last current cease to run ! 
Oh, may my falls be bright as thine ! 
May Heaven's forgiving rainbow shine 
Upon the mist that circles me, 
As soft, as now it hangs o'er thee ! 



CLORIS AND FANNY. 

Cloris ! if I were Persia's king, 
I'd make my graceful queen of thee : 

While Fanny, wild and artless thing, 
Should but my humble handmaid be. 

There is but one objection in it — 
That, verily, I'm much afraid 

I should, in some unlucky minute, 
Forsake the mistress for the maid ! 



TO MISS 



With woman's form and woman's tricks 
So much of man you seem to mix, 

One knows not where to take you ; 
I pray you, if 'tis not too far, 
Go, ask of Nature which you are, 

Or what she meant to make you. 

Yet stay — you need not take the pains— 
With neither beauty, youth, nor brains 

For man or maid's desiring : 
Pert as female, fool as male, 
As boy too green, as girl too stale — 

The thing 's not worth inquiring ! 



TO 



ON HER ASKING ME TO ADDRESS A POEM TO HER. 

Sine vencre l'riget Apollo. 

JEgid. Menagius. 

How can I sing of fragrant sighs 

I ne'er have felt from thee ? 
How can I sing of smiling eyes, 

That ne'er have smil'd on me ? 

The heart, 'tis true, may fancy much, 
But, oh ! 'tis cold and seeming — 

One moment's real, rapturous touch 
Is worth an age of dreaming ! 



Think'st thou, when Julia's lip and breast 

Inspir'd my youthful tongue, 
I coldly spoke of lips unprest, 

Nor felt the heaven I sung ? 

No, no, the spell, that warm'd so long, 

Was still my Julia's kiss, 
And still the girl was paid, in song, 

What she had giv'n in bliss ! 

Then beam one burning smile on me, 

And I will sing those eyes ; 
Let me but feel a breath from thee, 

And I will praise thy sighs. 

That rosy mouth alone can bring 

What makes the bard divine — 
Oh, Lady ! how my lip would sing, 

If once 'twere prest to thine ! 



SONG 

OF THE EVIL SPIRIT OF THE WOODS. 1 

Qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla. . 

Ovid. Met am. Lib. hi. v 227 

Now the vapour, hot and damp, 
Shed by day's expiring lamp, 
Through the misty ether spreads 
Every ill the white man dreads ; 
Fiery fever's thirsty thrill, 
Fitful ague's shivering chill ! 

Hark ! I hear the traveller's song, 
As he winds the woods along, 
Christian ! 'tis the song of fear ; 
Wolves are round thee, night is near, 
And the wild thou dar'st to roam — 
Oh ! 'tv/as once the Indian's home ! 2 
Hither, sprites, who love to harm, 
Wheresoe'er you work your charm, 
By the creeks, or by the brakes, 
Where the pale witch feeds her snakes 
And the cayman 3 loves to creep, 
Torpid, to his wintry sleep : 
Where the bird of carrion flits, 
And the shuddering murderer sits, 4 



1 The idea of this poem occurred to me in passing through 
the very dreary wilderness between Batavia, a new settle- 
ment in the midst of the woods, and the little village of 
Buffalo upon Lake Erie. This is the most fatiguing part 
of the route, in travelling through the Genesee country to 
Niagara. 

2 " The Five Confederated Nations (of Indians) were 
settled along the banks of the Susquehanna and the adja- 
cent country, until the year 1779, when General Sullivan, 
with an army of 4000 men, drove them from their country 
to Niagara, where, being obliged to live on salted provisions, 
to which they were unaccustomed, great numbers of them 

i. Two hundred of them, it is saia, were buried ir one 
grave, where they had encamped." — Morse's American 
Geography. 

3 The alligator, who is supposed to He :n a torpid state all 
the winter, in the bank of some creek or r onrl, having pre 
viously swallowed a large number of pi/ie- knots, which are 
his only sustenance during the time. 

4 This was the mode of punishment for murder (as Father 
Charlevoix tells us) among the Hurons. " They laid the 
dead body upon poles at the top of a cabin, and the. mur- 
derer was obliged to remain several days together, and to 
receive all that dropped from the carcass, not only op him- 
self but on his food." 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC 



135 



Lone beneath a roof of blood, 
While upon his poison'd food, 
From the corpse of him he slew 
Drops the chill and gory dew ! 

Hither bend you, turn you hither 
Eyes that blast and wings that wither ! 
Cross the wandering Christian's way, 
Lead him, ere the glimpse of day, 
Many a mile of madd'ning error 
Through the maze of night and terror, 
Till the morn behold him lying 
O'er the damp earth, pale and dying ! 
Mock him, when his eager sight 
Seeks the cordial cottage-light ; 
Gleam then, like the lightning-bug, 
Tempt him to the den that's dug 
For the foul and famish'd brood 
Of the she-wolf, gaunt for blood ! 
Or, unto the dangerous pass 
O'er the deep and dark morass, 
Where the trembling Indian brings 
Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings, 
Tributes, to be hung in air 
To the Fiend presiding there P 
Then, when night's long labour past, 
Wilder'd, faint, he falls at last, 
Sinking where the causeway's edge 
Moulders in the slimy sedge, 
There let every noxious thing 
Trail its filth and fix its sting ; 
Let the bull-toad taint him over, 
Round him let musquitoes hover, 
In his ears and eye-balls tingling, 
With his blood their poison mingling, 
Till, beneath the solar fires, 
Rankling all, the wretch expires ! 



TO MRS. HENRY T— GHE, 

ON READING HER " PSYCHE.'' 

Tell me the witching tale again, 
For m v er has my heart or ear 

Hung on &o sweet, so pure a strain, 
So pure to feel, so sweet to hear ! 

Say, Love ! in all thy spring of fame, 
When the high heaven itself was thine; 

When piety confess'd the flame, 
And even thy errors were divine ! 

Did ever Muse's hand, so fair 

A glory round thy temple spread ? 



1802. 



• " We find also collars of porcelain, tobacco, ears of 
maize, skins, etc. by (beside of difficult and dangerous ways, 
on rocks, ur by the side of the folia ; and these are so many 
offerings made to the spirits which preside in these places." 
See Charlt poll's Letter on the Traditions and the Religion 
of the Savages of Canada. 

Father Hennepin too mentions this ceremony; he also 
says, " We took notice of one barbarian, who made a kind 
of sacrifice upon an oak at the Cascade of St. Antony of 
Padua, upon the river Mississippi." See Hennepin 1 s Voyage 
into North America. 



Did ever lip's ambrosial air 

Such perfume o'er thy altars shed ? 

One maid there was, who round her lyre 
The mystic myrtle wildly wreath' d — 

But all her sighs were sighs of fire, 
The myrtle wither'd as she breath'd '. 

Oh ! you that love's celestial dream, 

In all its purity, would know, 
Let not the senses' ardent beam, 

Too strongly through the vision glow I 

Love sweetest lies, conceal'd in night, 
The night where Heaven has bid him lie ; 

Oh ! shed not there unhallowed light, 
Or Psyche knows, the boy will fly I 1 

Dear Psyche ! many a charmed hour, 
Through many a wild and magic waste, 

To the fair fount and blissful bower 2 
Thy mazy foot my soul hath trae'd ! 

Where'er thy joys are number' d now, 
Beneath whatever shades of rest, 

The Genius of the starry brow 3 
Hath chain'd thee to thy Cupid's breast , 

Whether above the horizon dim, 
Along whose verge our spirits stray, 

(Half sunk within the shadowy brim, 
Half brighten'd by the eternal ray.) 4 

Thou risest to a cloudless pole ! 

Or, lingering here, dost love to mark 
The twilight walk of many a soul 

Through sunny good and evil dark ; 

Still be the song to Psyche dear, 
The song, whose dulcet tide was given 

To keep her name as fadeless here, 
As nectar keeps her soul in heaven ! 



1 See the story in Apulcius. With respect to this beautifu? 
allegory of Love and Psyche, there is an ingenious idea 
suggested by the senator Buonarotti, in his " Osseroaiwni 
sopra alcuni frammenti di vasi antichi." He thinks tne 
fable is taken from some very occult mysteries, which had 
long been celebrated in honour of Love ; and he accounts, 
upon this supposition, for the silence of the more ancient 
auihors upon the subject, as it was not till towards the de- 
cline of pagan superstition, that writers could venture to 
evealor discuss such ceremonies; accordingly, he observes, 
we find Lucian and Plutarch treating, without reserve, of 
the Dea Syria, and Isis and Osiris; and Apuleius, who hag 
given us the story of Cupid and Psyche, has also detailed 
some of the mysteries of Isis. See the Giornaledi Litter att 
d y Italia, torn, xxvii. articol. 1. See also the Observations 
upon the ancient Gems in the Museum Florentinum, vol. 

p. 156. 

1 cannot avoid remarking here an error into which the 
French Encyclopedistes have been led by M. Spon, n their 
article Psyche. They say, " Petron fait un recit de k 
pompe nuptiale de ces deux amans (Amour et Psyche.) 
Deja, dit-il," etc. etc. The Psyche of Petronius, however, 
is a servant-maid, and the marriage which he describes is 
that of the young Pannychis. See Spoyi's Recherches 
Curieuses, etc. Dissertat. 5. 

2 Allusions to Mrs. T — ghe's poem. 

3 Constancy. 

4 By this image the Platonists expressed the middle stato 
of the soul between sensible and intellectual existence. 



J 36 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



IMPROMPTU, UPON LEAVING SOME 
FRIENDS. 

O dulces comitum valete coetus ! — Catullus. 

No, never shall my soul forget 
The friends I found so cordial-hearted ; 

Dear shall be the day we met, 
And dear shall be the night we parted ! 

Oh ! if regrets, however sweet, 
Must with the lapse of time decay, 

Yet still, when thus in mirth you meet, 
Fill high to him that's far away ! 

Long be the flame of memory found, 
Alive — when with your social glass, 

Let that be still the magic round, 
O'er which oblivion dares not pass ! 



EPISTLE VIII. 
TO THE HONOURABLE W. R. SPENCER, 

Nee venit ad duros rausa vocata getas. 

Ovid ex Ponto, Lib. i. ep. 5. 

FROM BUFFALO UPON LAKE ERIE. 

Thou oft hast told me of the fairy hours 
Thy heart has number'd in those classic bowers, 
Where fancy sees the ghost of ancient wit 

Mid cowls and cardinals profanely flit, 
And pagan spirits, by the pope unlaid, 
Haunt every stream and sing through every shade ! 
There still the bard, who, (if.his numbers be 
His tongue's light echo,) must have talk'd like thee, 
The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught 
Those playful, tfu'hshine holidays of thought 
In which the basking soul reclines and glows, 
Warm without toil and brilliant in repose. 
There still he roves, and laughing loves to see 
How modern monks wtyh ancient rakes agree ; 
How mitres hang, where^ ivy wreaths might twine, 

aid heathen Massic 's daVnn'd for stronger wine ! 
TnHcfiL,t£to are all those wandering souls of song, 
With whom thy spirit hath'commun'd so long, 
Whose rarest gems are, every instant, hung 
By memory's magic on thy sparkling tongue. 
But here, alas-! by Erie's stormy lake, 
A.s far from thee, my lonely course I take, 
No bright remembrance o'er the fancy plays 
No classic dream, no star of other days 
Has left that visionary glory here, 
That relic of its light, so soft, so deai; 
Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene, 
The humblest shed, where genius once has been ! 

All that creation's varying mass assumes 
Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms ; 
Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow, 
Bright lakes expand, and conquering 1 rivers flow ; 



t This epithet was suggested by Charlevoix's striking de- 
*ription of the confluence of the Missouri with the Missis- 



Mind, mind alone, without whose quickening ray, 
The world 's a wilderness, and man but clay, 
Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose, 
Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows S 
Take Christians, Mohawks, Democrats and all 
From the rude wigwam to the congress-hall, 
From man the savage, whether slav'd or free, 
To man the civiliz'd, less tame than he ! 
'Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife 
Betwixt half-polish'd and half-barbarous life ; 
Where every ill the ancient world can brew 
Is mix' d with every grossness of the new ; 
Where all corrupts though little can entice, 
And nothing 's known of luxury, but vice ! 

Is this the region then, is this the clime 
For golden fancy ? for those dreams sublime, 
Which all their miracles of light reveal 
To heads that meditate and hearts that feel ? 
No, no — the muse of inspiration plays 
O'er every scene ; she walks the forest-maze, 
And climbs the mountain ; every blooming spot 
Burns with her step, yet man regards it not ! 
She whispers round, her words are in the air, 
But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there, 
Without one breath of soul, divinely strong, 
One ray of heart to thaw them into song ! 

Yet, yet forgive me, oh, you sacred few ! 
Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew , 
Whom, known and lov'd through many a social eve 
'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave I 1 
Less dearly welcome were the lines of yore 
The exile saw upon the sandy shore, 
When his lone heart but faintly hop'd to find 
One print of man, one blessed stamp of mind ! 
Less dearly welcome than the liberal zeal, 
The strength to reason and the warmth to feel, 
The manly polish and the illumin'd taste, 
Which, 'mid the melancholy, heartless waste 
My foot has wander'd, oh you sacred few ! 
I found by Delaware's green banks with you. 
Long may you hate the Gallic dross that runs 
O'er your fair country and corrupts its sons ; 
Long love the arts, the glories which adorn 
Those fields of freedom, where your sires were born 
Oh ! if America can yet be great, 
If, neither chain'd by choice, nor damn'd by fiite 



sippi. "I believe this is the finest confluence in the world. 
The two rivers are much of the same breadth, each about 
half a league ; but the Missouri is by fur the most rapid, and 
seems to enter the Mississippi like a conqueror, through 
which it carries its white waves to the opposite shore with- 
out mixing them : afterwards it gives its colour to the Mis- 
sissippi, which it never loses again, but carries quite down 
to the sea." — Letter xxvii. 

1 In the society of Mr. Dennie and his friends, at Phila 
delphia, I passed the few agreeable moments which my tour 
through the States afforded me. Mr. Dennie has succeeded 
in diffusing through this elegant little circle that love for 
good literature and sound politics, which he feels so zeal- 
ously himself, and which is so very rarely the characteristic 
of his countrymen. They will not, I trust, accuse me of 
illiberality for the picture which I have given of the igno- 
rance ar.d corruotion that surround them, [f I did not hate, 
as I ought, the •'au.Lle *•> which they are opposed, \ could 
not value, as I do. the spiru >vith which they defy it; and, 
in learning from them what Americans can he, I but sea 
with the more indignation what Americans are 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



137 



To the mob-mania which imbrues her now, 

She yet can raise the bright but temperate brow 

Of single majesty, can grandly place 

An empire's pillar upon freedom's base, 

Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove 

For the fair capital that flowers above ? — 

If yet, releas'd from all that vulgar throng, 

So vain of dulness and so pleas'd with wrong, 

Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide 

Folly in froth, and barrenness in pride, 

She yet can rise, can wreath the attic charms 

Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms, 

And see her poets flash the fires of song, 

To light her warriors' thunderbolts along ! 

It is to you, to souls that favouring Heaven 

Has made like yours, the glorious task is given — ■ 

Oh, but for such, Columbia's days were done ; 

Rank without ripeness, quicken'd without sun, 

Crude at the surface, rotten at the core, 

Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er ! 

Believe me, Spencer, while I wing'd the hours 
Where Schuylkill undulates through banks of flow- 
ers, 
Though few the days, the happy evenings few, 
So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew, 
That my full soul forgot its wish to roam, 
And rested there, as in a dream of home ! 
And looks I met, like looks I lov'd before, 
And voices too, which, as they trembled o'er 
The chord of memory, found full many a tone 
Of kindness there in concord with their own.' 
Oh ! we had nights of that communion free, 
That flush of heart, which I have known with thee 
So oft, so warmly ; nights of mirth and mind, 
Of whims that taught, and follies that refin'd ; 
When shall we both renew them? when restor'd 
To the pure feast and intellectual board, 
Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine 
Those whims that teach, those follies that refine? 
Even now, as wandering upon Erie's shore, 
I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar, 
I sigh for England — oh ! these weary feet 
Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet ! 



.»»» 1IX, £>S SOT XAPTA NTN MNEIAN EXtl. 
Euripides. 

A WARNING 
TO 



Oh! fair as Heaven and chaste as light ! 
Did Nature mould thee all so bright, 
That thou shouldst ever learn to weep 
O'er languid Virtue's fatal sleep, 
O'er shame extinguish'd, honour fled, 
Peace lost, heart wither'd, feeling dead ? 

No, no — a star was born with thee, 
Which sheds eternal purity ! 
Thou hast, within those sainted eyes, 
60 fair a transcript of the skies, 
S 



In lines of fire such hea enly lore, 
That man should read them and adore ! 

Yet have I known a gentle maid 

Whose early charms were just array'd 

In nature's loveliness like thine, 

And wore that clear, celestial sign, 

Which seems to mark the brow that's fair 

For Destiny's peculiar care ! 

Whose bosom too was once a zone, 

Where the bright gem of virtue shone 

Whose eyes were talismans of fire 

Against the spell of man's desire ! 

Yet, hapless girl, in one sad hour, 

Her charms have shed their radiant flower 

The gem has been beguil'd away ; 

Her eyes have lost their chastening ray ; 

The simple fear, the guiltless shame, 

The smiles that from reflection came, 

All, all have fled, and left her mind 

A faded monument behind ! 

Like some wave-beaten, mould erinf stone 

To memory rais'd by hands unknown, 

Which, many a wintry hour, has stood, 

Beside the ford of Tyra's flood, 

To tell the traveller, as he cross'd, 

That there some loved friend was lost ! 

Oh ! 'twas a sight I wept to see — 

Heaven keep the lost-one's fate from thee ! 



TO 



Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now, 
While yet my soul is something free ; 

While yet those dangerous eyes allow 
One moment's thought to stray from thee ! 

Oh ! thou art every instant dearer — 
Every chance that brings me nigh thee, 

Brings my ruin nearer, nearer: 
I am lost, unless I fly thee ! 

Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me, 

Wish me not so soon to fall, 
Duties, fame, and hopes await me, 

Oh ! that eye would blast them all ! 

Yes, yes, it would — for thou'rt as cold 

As ever yet allur'd or sway'd, 
And would'st, without a sigh, behold 

The ruin which thyself had made ! 

Yet — could I think that, truly fond, 
That eye but once would smile on me, 

Good Heaven ! how much, how far beyond 
Fame, duty, hope, that smile would be ! 

Oh ! but to win it, night and day, 

Inglorious at thy feet reclin'd, 
I'd sigh my dreams of fame away, 

The world for thee forgot, resign'd ! 

(But no, no, no— farewell — we part, 
* Never to meet, no, never, never - 
Oh, woman ! what a mind and heart 
Thy coldness has undone for ever I 



138 



MOORE'S vVORKS. 



FROM THE HIGH PRIEST OF APOLLO, TO 
A VIRGIN OF DELPHI. 1 

Cum digno digna. — Sulpicia. 

" Who is the maid, with golden hair, 
With e)'es of fire and feet of air, 
Whose harp around my altar swells 
The sweetest of a thousand shells ?" 

'Twas thus the deity, who treads 
The arch of heaven, and grandly sheds 
Day from his eye-lids ! — thus he epoke, 
As through my cell his glories broke. 

"Who is the maid, with golden hair, 
With eyes of fire and feet of air, 
Whose harp around my altar swells, 
The sweetest of a thousand shells ?" 

Aphelia is the Delphic fair, 2 
With eyes of fire and golden hair, 
Aphelia's are the airy feet, 
And hers the harp divinely sweet ; 

For foot so light has never trod 
The laurel'd caverns 3 of the god, 
Nor harp so soft has ever given 
A strain to earth or sigh to heaven i 

" Then tell the virgin to unfold, 
In looser pomp, her locks of gold, 
And bid those eyes with fonder fire 
Be kindled for a god's desire ; 4 
Since He, who lights the path of years- 
Even from the fount Of morning's tears, 
To where his sitting splendours burn 
Upon the western sea-maid's urn — 



1 This poem requires a little explanation. It is well 
known that, in the ancient temples, whenever a reverend 
priest, like the supposed author of the invitation before us, 
was inspired with a tender inclination towards any fair 
visitor of the shrine, and, at the same time, felt a diffidence 
;«i his own powers of persuasion, lie had but to proclaim 
that the God himself was enamoured of her, and had signi- 
fied his divine will that she should sleep in the interior of 
the temple. Many a pious husband connived at this divine 
assignation, and even declared himself proud of the selec- 
tion, with which his family had been distinguished by the 
deity. In the temple of Jupiter Belus, there was a splendid 
bed for these occasions. In Egyptian Thebes the same 
mockery was practised, and at the oracle of Patara in Ly- 
cia, the priestess never could prophesy till an interview with 
the deity was allowed her. The story which we read in 
Josephus (Lib. xviii. cap. 3.) of the Roman matron Paulina, 
whom the priests of Tsis, for a bribe, betrayed in this manner 
t'j Mundus, is a singular instance of the impudent excess to 
which credulity suffered these impostures to be carried. 
This story has "been put into the form of a little novel, under 
the name of "La Pudicitia Schernita," by the licentious 
and unfortunate Pallavicino. See his Operc Scclte, torn. i. 
I have made my priest here prefer a cave to the temple. 

2 In the 9th Pythic of Pindar, where Apollo, in the same 
manner, requires of Chiron some information respecting the 
fair Cyrene, the Centaur, in obeying, very gravely apolo- 
gizes for toiling the god what his omniscience must know so 
perfectly already : 

Ei Ss yi xp'< *«* t*P <ro<pov «i/t«i£ £p«£oci 

3 A*.*.' s«f $ot$vn$)\ yvtt*.* H>y\<rQfJixt tx$s, Euripid. 
Ion. v. 76. 

4 Ne deve partorir ammiratione ch' egli si pregiasse tli 
haver una Delta concorrente nel possesso della mogHe ; 
mentre, anche, nei nostri secoli, non ostante cosi rigorose 
lescge d'onore, trovasi chi s'ascrive a gloria il veder la mo- 
bile hono/'ita da gl' amplessi di un Principe. — Pallaoicino. 



Cannot, in all his course, behold 
Such eyes of fire, such hair of gold I 
Tell her, he comes, in blissful pride, 
His lip yet sparkling with the tide, 
That mantles in Olympian bowls, 
The nectar of eternal souls ! 
For her, for her he quits the skies, 
And to her kiss from nectar flies. 
Oh ! he would hide his wreath of rays, 
And leave the world to pine for days, 
Might he but pass the hours of shade, 
Imbosom'd by his Delphic maid — 
She, more than earthly woman blest, 
He, more than god on woman's breast 1" 

There is a cave beneath the steep, 1 
Where living rills of crystal weep 
O'er herbage of the loveliest hue 
That ever spring begem'd with dew : 
There oft the green bank's glossy tint 
Is brighten'd by the amorous print 
Of many a faun and naiad's form, 
That still upon the dew is warm, 
When virgins come, at peep of day, 
To loss the sod where lovers lay ! 
" There, there," the god, impassion'd, said, 
" Soon as the twilight tinge is fled, 
And the dim orb of lunar souls* 
Along its shadowy path-way rolls — 
There shall we find our bridal bed, 
And ne'er did rosy rapture spread, 
Not even in Jove, voluptuous bowers, 
A bridal bed so blest as ours !" 

" Tell the imperial God, who reigns, 
Sublime in oriental fanes, 
Whose towering turrets paint their pride 
Upon Euphrates' pregnant tide ; 3 
Tell him, when to his midnight loves 
In mystic majesty he moves, 



1 The Corycian Cave, which Pausanias mentions. The 
inhabitants of Parnassus held it sacred to the Corycian 
nymphs, who were children of the river Plistus. 

2 See a preceding note, page 119. It should seem that 
lunar spirits were of a purer order than spirits in general, as 
Pythagoras was said by his followers to have descended from 
the regions of the moon. The heresiarch Manes too ima- 
gined that the sun and moon are the residence of Christ, 
and that the ascension was nothing more than his flight to 
those orbs. 

3 The temple of Jupiter Belus at Babylon, which con- 
sisted of several chapels and towers. "In the last tower 
(says Herodotus) is a large chapel, in which there lies a bed, 
very splendidly ornamented, and beside it a lable of gold; 
but there is no statue in the place. No man is allowed to 
sleep here, but the apartment is appropriated to a female, 
whom, if we believe the Chaldean priests, the deity selects 
from the women of the country, as his favourite." — Lib. i 
cap. 181. 

The poem now before the reader, and a few more in the 
present collection, are taken from a work, which 1 rather 
prematurely announced to the public, and which, perhaps very 
luckily for myself, was interrupted by my voyage to Ameri- 
ca. The following fragments from the same work describe 
the effect of one of these invitations of Apollo upon the 
mind of a young enthusiastic girl: — 

Delphi heard her shrine proclaim, 
In oracles, the guilty flume. 
Apollo lov'd my youthful charms, 
Apollo woo'd me to his arms! — 
Sure, sure when man so oft allows 
Religion's wreath to blind his brows, 
Weak wondering woman must believe, 
Where pride and zeal at once deceive. 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC 



Lighted by many an odorous fire, 
And hymn'd by all Chaldea's choir — 
Oh ! tell the godhead to confess, 
The pompous joy delights him less, 
(Even though his mighty arms enfold 
A priestess on a couch of gold) 
Than, when in love's unholier prank, 
By moonlight cave or rustic bank, 
Upon his neck some wood-nymph lies, 
Exhaling from her lips and eyes 
The flame and incense of delight, 
To sanctify a dearer rite, 
A mystery, more divinely warm'd 
Than priesthood ever yet perform'd !" 

Happy the maid, whom Heaven allows 
To break for Heaven her virgin vows ! 
Happy the maid ! — her robe of shame 
Is whiten'd by a heavenly flame, 
Whose glory, with a lingering trace, 
Shines through and deifies her race ! 

Oh, virgin ! what a doom is thine ! 
To-night, to-night a lip divine 1 



When flattery takes a holy vest, 

Oh! 'tis too much for woman's breast! 

How often ere the destin'd time, 
Which was to seal my joys sublime, 
How often did I trembling run 
To meet, at morn, the mounting sun, 
And, while his fervid beam he threw 
Upon my lips' luxuriant dew, 
I thought — alas ! the simple dream- 
There burn'd a kiss in every beam ; 
With parted lips inhal'd their heat, 
And sigh'd, " oh god ! thy kiss is sweet!" 

Oft too, at day's meridian hour, 
When to the naiad's gleamy bower 
Our virgins steal, and, blushing, hide 
Their beauties in the folding tide, 
If, through the grove, whose modest arms 
Were spread around my robeless charms, 
A wandering sunbeam wanton fell 
Where lover's looks alone should dwell s 
Not all a lover's looks of flame 
Could kindle such an amorous shame. 
It was the sun's admiring glance, 
And, as I felt its glow advance 
O'er my young beauties, wildly flush'd 
I burn'd and panted, thrill'd and blush'd . 



No deity at midnight came — 
The lamps, that witness'd all my shame, 
Rcveal'd to these bewilder'd eyes 
No other shape than earth supplies ; 
No solar light, no nectar'd air, 
All, all, alas! was human there: 
Woman's faint conflict, virtue's fall, 
And passion's victory — human all ! 

How gently must the guilt of love 
Be charm'd away by Powers above, 
When men possess such tender skill 
In softening crime and sweetening ill ! 
'Twas but a night, and morning's rays 
Saw me, with fond forgiving gaze, 
Hang o'er the quiet slumbering breast 
Of him who ruin'd all my rest ; 
Him, who had taught these eyes to weep 
Their first sad tears, and yet could sleep ! 
* * * * " * * 

1 Fontenelle, in his playful rifaci "tenlo of the learned 
materials of Van-Dale, has related in his own inimitable 
manner an adventure of this kind, which was detected and 
exposed at Alexandria. See V Historic des Oracles, se- 
conde dissertat. chap. vii. Crebillon, too, in one of his most 
am-ising little stories, has made the Genie Mange-Taupes, 



In every kiss shall stamp on thee 

A seal of immortality ! 

Fly to the cave, Aphelia, fly ; 

There lose the world, and wed the skj ' 

There all the boundless rapture steal 

Which gods can give, or woman feel '. 



WOMAN. 

Away, away — you're all the same, 
A fluttering, smiling, jilting throtig . 

Oh ! by my soul, I burn with shame, 
To think I've been your slave so i nig! 

Slow to be warm'd, and quick to rove, 
From folly kind, from cunning loath, 

Too cold for bliss, too weak for love, 
Yet feigning all that 's best in both. 

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign, 
More joy it gives to woman's breast 

To make ten frigid coxcombs vain, 
Than one true, manly lover blest ! 

Away, away — your smile 's a curse- — 
Oh ! blot me from the race of men, 

Kind pitying Heaven ! by death or worse, 
Before I love such things again ! 



BALLAD STANZAS. 

I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd 
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, 

And I said, "if there's peace to be found in the world, 
A heart that was humble might hope for it here !" 

It was noon, and on flowers that languish' d around 
In silence repos'd the voluptuous bee ; 

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound 
But the wood-pecker tapping the hollow beech-tree 

And " Here in this lone little wood,'' I exclaim'd, 
" With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, 

Who would blush when I prais'd her, and weep if I 
blam'd, 
How blest could I five, and how calm could I die* 

" By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips 
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, 

And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips, 

Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine !" 



TO 



N02EI TA OIATATA. Euripides 



1803. 



Come, take the harp — 'tis vain to muse 
Upon the gathering ills we see ; 

Oh ! take the harp, and let me lose 
All thoughts of ill in hearing thee ! 



of the Isle Jonquille, assert this privilege of spiritual being* 
in a manner very formidable to the husbands of the island 
He says, however, " Les maris ont le plaisir de rester tou 
jours dans le doute ; en pared cas, c'est une ressourco '' 



140 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Sing to me, love !— though death were near, 
Thy song could make my soul forget — 

Nay, nay, in pity dry that tear, 
All may be well, be happy yet ! 

Let me but see that snowy arm 
Once more upon the dear harp lie, 

And I will cease to dream of harm, 
Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh ! 

Give me that strain of mournful touch, 
We us'd to love long, long ago, 

Before our hearts had known as much 
As now, alas ! they bleed to know ! 

Sweet notes ! they tell of former peace, 
Of all that look'd so rapturous then : 

Now wither'd, lost — oh ! pray thee, cease, 
I cannot bear those sounds again ! 

Art thou too, wretched ? yes, thou art; 

I see thy tears flow fast with mine — 
Come, come to this devoted heart, 

'Tis breaking, but it still is thine ! 



A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY. 

'Twas on the Red Sea coast, at morn, we met 
The venerable man :' a virgin bloom 
Of softness mingled with the vigorous thought 
That tower'd upon his brow ; as when we see 
The gentle moon and the full radiant sun 
Shining in heaven together. When he spoke, 
'Twas language sweeten'd into song — such holy 

sounds 
As oft the spirit of the good man hears, 
Prelusive to the harmony of heaven, 
When death is nigh ! 2 and still, as he unclos'd 
His sacred lips, an odour, all as bland 
As ocean-breezes gather from the flowers 
That blossom in elysium, 3 breath'd around ! 
With silent awe we listen'd, while he told 
Of the dark veil, which many an age had hung 
O'er Nature's form, till by the touch of Time 
The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous, 
And half the goddess beam'd in glimpses through it! 
Of magic wonders, that were known and taught 
By him (or Cham or Zoroaster nam'd) 

1 In Plutarch's Essay on the Decline of the Oracles, 
Cleombrotus, one of the interlocutors, describes an extra- 
ordinary man whom he had met with, alter long research, 
upon the hanks of the Red Sea. Once in every year this 
supernatural personage appeared to mortals, and conversed 
wilh them ; the rest of his time he passed among the Genii 
and I lie Nymphs. Ilspi tv\v spvSpxv Srxkxcra-xv ivpov, »v- 
Spuirou; xvx ttxv stos a;ra$j ivT\jy%xvOvrx, rxKXx Si <rvv 
rxiq v\j,uOx^, voftxa-i x.xi Sxifttxrt, u>; i$x<rx.i. He Spoke 
in a tone not far removed from singing, and whenever he 
opened his lips, a fragrance filled the place: q>5iyyofitvou 

St TOV T07T0V IVJjSlX X*T£«%6, TOU (TTO/iXTOg YiSiTTOV X7r07TVl- 

ovto?. From him Cleombrotus learned the doctrine of a 
plurality of worlds. 

2 The celebrated Janus Dousa, a little before his death, 
imagined that he heard a strain of music in the air. See 
the poem of He ins i us " in harmoniam quam paulo ante 
obitum audire sibi visus est Dousa." Page 501. 

3 ' ivSx /XXX.XQ0V 

vxtov wxixviSig 
ctvgxi 7rt$i7rvii$<rtv' <x.v- 
&(M* Si xevtra qhiyti 



Pindar. Olymp. ii. 



Who mus'd amid the mighty cataclysm, 
O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore, 1 
Nor let the living star of science 2 sink 
Beneath the waters which ingulPd the world !— 
Of visions, by Calliope reveai'd 
To him, 3 who trac'd upon his typic lyre 
The diapason of man's mingled frame, 
And the grand Doric heptachord of Heaven ! 
With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane, 
Which the grave sons of Mochus, many a night, 
Told to the young and bright-hair'd visitant 
Of Carmel's sacred mount ! 4 — Then, in a flow 



1 Cham, the son of Noah, is supposed to have taken with 
him into the ark the principal doctrines of magical, or ratuei 
of natural, science, which he had inscribed upon some very 
durable substances, in order that they might resist th6 
ravages of the deluge, and transmit the secrets of antedilu- 
vian knowledge to his posterity. — See the extracts made by 
Bayle, in his article Cham. The identity of Cham and Zo- 
roaster depends upon the authority of Berosus, or the im- 
postor Annius, and a few more such respectable testimonies. 
See JYaude's jipulogie pour les Grands homines, etc. 
Chap. 8, where he takes more trouble than is necessary in 
refuting this gratuitous supposition. 

2 Chamum a posteris hujus artis admiratoribus Zoroas- 
trum, seu vivum astrum, piopterea fuisse dictum et pro Deo 
habitum. — Bochart. Gcograph. Sacr. lib. iv. cap. i. 

3 Orpheus. — Paulinus, in his Hebdomades, Cap. ii. Lib. 
iii. has endeavoured to show, after the Plaiomsts, that man 
is a diapason, made up of a diatesseron, which is his soul, 
and a diapente, which is his body. Those frequent allusions 
to music, by which the ancient philosophers illustrated their 
sublime theories, musl have tended verj much to elevate 
the character of the art, and to enrich it with associations 
of the grandest and most interesting nature. See a pre- 
ceding note, page 107, for their ideas upon the harmony of 
the spheres. Heraclitus compared the mixture of good and 
evil in this world to the blended varieties of harmony in a 
musical instrument: {Plutarch de Jinima Procrcat.) and 
Euryphamus the Pythagorean, in a fragment preserved by 
Stobaeus, describes human life, in its perfection, as a sweet 
and well-tuned lyre. Some of the ancients were so fanciful 
as to suppose that the operations of the memory were regu- 
lated by a kind of musical cadence, and that ideas occurred 
to it " per arsin et thesin ;" while others converted the whole 
man into a mere harmonized machine, whose motion de- 
pended upon a certain tension of 'die body, analogous to that 
of the strings in an instrument. Cicero indeed ridicules 
Aristoxenus lor this fancy, and says, " let him teach singing, 
and leave philosophy to Aristotle;" but Aristotle himself, 
though decidedly opposed to the harmonic speculations oi 
the Pythagoreans and Platonists, could sometimes conde- 
scend to enliven his doctrines by reference to the beauties 
of musical science; as, in the treatise Hspi xoc-^ou, attri- 
buted tO him, Kx^XTTip Si IV %Cpu>, X0pU£i*»0U XXTXp^XVTaf. 
X. T. K. 

The Abbe Batteux, upon the doctrine of the Stoics, attri- 
butes to those philosophers the same mode of illustration. 
"L'ameetait cause active, stoujv an-ioj, le corps cause 
passive y>Si tou 7rxa-/.iiv. L'une agissant dans l'autre; et 
y prenant, par son action meme, un caractere, des formes, 
des modifications, qu'elle n'avait pas par elle-meme : a peu 
pres comme l'air, qui, chasse dans un instrument de musique, 
fait connaifre par lesdifferens sons qu'il produit, les differ- 
entes modifications qu'il y recoit." See a fine simile ot 
this kind in Cardinal Polignac's Poem, Lib. 5. v. 734. 

4 Pythagoras is represented in Jamblichus as descending 
with great solemnity from Mount Carmel, for which reason 
the Carmelites have claimed him as one of their fraternity. 
This Mochus or Moschus, with the descendants of whom 
Pythagoras conversed in Phoenicia, and from whom he de- 
rived the doctrines of atomic philosophy, is supposed by 
some to be the same with Moses. Huett has adopted this 
idea, Demonstration evangsliaue, Prop. iv. chap. 2. § 7 ; 
and LeClerc, amongst others, has refuted it. See Bibliotk. 
choisie, torn. i. p. 75. — It is certain, however, that the doc- 
trine of atoms was known and promulgated long before Epi- 
curus. " With the fountains of Democritus," says Cicero, 
" the gardens of Epicurus were watered;" and indeed the 
learned author of the Intellectual System has shown, thai 
all the early philosophers, till the time of Plato, were utom- 
ists. We find Epicurus, however, boasting that his tenets 
were new and unborrowed, and perhaps few among the 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC 



11 



Of calmer converse, he beguil'd us on 
Through many a maze of garden and of porch, 



ancients had a stronger claim to originality ; for, in truth, 
if wc examine their schools of philosophy, notwithstanding 
the peculiarities which seem to distinguish them from eacJi 
other, we may generally observe that the difference is hut 
verbal and trilling, and that, among those various and learn- 
ed heresies, there is scarcely one to be selected, whose opi- 
nions are its own, original, and exclusive. Tlie doctrine of 
the world's eternity may be traced through all the sects. 
The continual metempsychosis of Pythagoras, the grand 
periodic year of the Stoics, (at the conclusion of which the 
universe is supposed to return to its original order, and 
confluence a new revolution,) the successive dissolution and 
combination of atoms maintained by the Epicureans, all 
these tenets are but different intimations of the same gene- 
ral belief in the eternity of the world. As St. Austin ex- 
plains the periodic year of the Stoics, it disagrees only so far 
with the idea of the Pythagoreans, that instead of an endless 
transmission of the soul through a variety of bodies, it 
stores the same body and soul to repeat their former round 
of existence, and ' ; that identical Plato, who lectured in the 
Academy of Athens, shall again and again, at certain inter 
vals during the lapse of eternity, appear in the same aeadenn 
and resume the same functions — " .... sic eadetu tempera 
temporaliumque rerum volumina repeti, ut v. g. sicut in isto 
sceculo Plato philosophus in urbe Atheniensi, in ea schola 
qua? Academia dicta est, discipulos docuit, ita per innume- 
rabilia retro savcula, multuin plexis quidein intervallis, sed 
certis, et idem Plato, et eadem civitas, eademq.ue schola, 
iidemque discipuli repetiti et per innumerabilia deinde saecula 
repetemii shit — de Civitat. Dei. lib. xii. cap. 13. Vanini, 
in his dialogues, has given us a similar explication of the 
periodic revolutions of the world. "Ea de causa, qui nunc 
sunt in usu ritus, centies millies fuerunt, totiesque renascen- 
tur quoties ceciderunt." — 52. 

The paradoxical notions of the Stoics, upon the beauty, 
the riches, the dominion of their imaginary sage, are among 
the most distinguishing characteristics of the school, and, 
according to their advocate Lipsius, were peculiar to that, 
sect. "Priora ilia (decreta) qua? passim in philosophantium 
scholis fere obtinent, ista qua? peculiaria huic secta? et ha- 
bent contradictionem: i. e. paradoxa." — Manuduct ad 
Stoic. Philos. lib. iii. dissertat. 2. But it is evident (as 
the Abbe Gamier has remarked, Memoires de VAcad. torn. 
35.) that even these absurdities of the stoics are borrowed, 
and that Plato is the source of all their extravagant para- 
doxes. We find their dogma, "dives qui sapiens,"' (which 
Clement of Alexandria has transferred from the Philosopher 
to the Christian, Paidagog. Kb. iii. cap. 6.) expressed in the 
prayer of Socrates at the end of the Pha?drus. il <?ix.£ Uxv 
re xxi xKkoi oo-o< ry,Si 3-so», Soiyire jtto i x.x\a> yevsvSrxi txv- 
SoSev ■vx.z.abtv Se orx £%cu, -rot$ evrog stvai y.oi <£</.«»• 
jtXko-iov Se i/o^i^oijf.i tov croaov. And many other instances 
might be adduced from the AvTepx<rrxi, the IIoA.»T<xof, etc. 
to prove that these weeds of paradox, were gathered among 
the bowers of the Academy. Hence it is that Cicero, in the 
preface to his Paradoxes, calls them Socratica ; and Lipsius, 
bxulting in the patronage of Socrates, says, "Ille totus est 
noster." This is indeed a coalition which evinces as much 
as can be wished the confused similitude of ancient philo- 
sophical opinions: the father of scepticism is here enrolled 
amongst the founders of the Portico; he, whose best know- 
ledge was that of his own ignorance, is called in to authorize 
the pretensions of the most obstinate dogmatists in all an- 
tiquity. 

Itutilius, in his Itinerarium, has ridiculed the sabbath of 
the Jews, as " lassati mollis imago Dei ;" but Epicurus gave 
an eternal holiday to his gods, and, rather than disturb the 
slumbers of Olympus, denied at once the interference of a 
Providence. He does not, however, seem to have been sin- 
gular in this opinion. Theophilus of Antioch, if he deserve 
any credit, in a letter to Autolycus, lib. iii. imputes a simi- 
lar belief to Pythagoras. <p>io"» (nvzrxyogxs) re tuv irxvroov 
&£»? xvSgwjiv ftv\Sev $povTi'Cetv; and Plutarch, though so 
hostile to the followers of Epicurus, has unaccountably 
adopted the very same theological error; having quoted the 
opinions of Anaxagoras and Plato upon divinity, be adds, 
Koii/oo; vr 'Xfn.xgTxvv(Tiv xfttporegot, otj tov Seov t7rotyi<rxv 
tx-tTTe<po/uevov tuiv xv&gATrivwv. De Placit. Philosophy 
lib. i. cap. 7. — Plato nimself has attributed a degree of in- 
difference to the gods, which is not far removed from the 
apathy of Epicurus'sheaven; as thus, in his Philebus, where 
Protarchus asks, Ouxsv £<xo{ ye are xxigetv 3-e«f, sts T o 
ivavTiov ; and Socrates answers, Tixw pev ouv eocoo-, «o-%vj- 
/uov yovv xvtu>v exxregov ytyvopevov eo-tiv : while Aristotle 
supposes a still more absurd neutrality, and concludes, by no| 



Through many a system, where the scatter'd light 
Of heavenly truth lay, like a broken beam 



very flattering analogy, that the Deity is as incapable of vir 
tue as of Vice: Kxi yxg uMTTreg ovSev &ng ieu i<tti xxkix, ovi" 

«£st»i, outo>s ouis <?iov. — Ethic. Jficomach. lib. vii. cap. 1 
In truth, Aristotle, upon the subject of Providence, was liulc 
more correct than Epicurus. De supposed the moon to be the 
limitof divine interlerence, excluding of course this sublunary 
world from its influence. The first definition of the world, 
in his treatise lisgt xoo-^-ov, (if this treatise be really the 
work of Aristotle,) agrees, almost verbum verbo, with that 
in the letter of Epicurus to Pythocles; they both omit the 
mention of a deity ; and, in his Ethics, lie intimates a doubt 
whether the gods feel any interest in the concerns of man 
kind. E* yxg tij sjt^ja.sk* tmv xvbgwmvwv ujto Stwi 
ytverxi. It is true, he adds, 'ila-Treg Soxn, but even tins ia 
very sceptical. 

In these erroneous conceptions of Aristotle, we trace the 
cause of that general neglect, which his philosophy expe- 
rienced among the early Christians. Plato is seldom much 
more orthodox ; but the obscure enthusiasm of his stylo al- 
lowed them to interpret all his fancies to their purpose ; such 
glowing steel was easily moulded, and Platomsm became a 
sword in the hands of the fathers. 

The Providence of the Stoics, so vaunted in their school, 
was a power as contemptibly inefficient as the rest. All 
was fate in the system of the Portico. The chains of destiny 
were thrown over Jupiter himself, and their deity was like 
Borgia, et Ca?sar et nihil. Not even the language of Seneca 
can reconcile this degradation of divinity : " Ille ipse omni- 
um conditor ac rector scripsit quidam fata, sen sequitur; 
semper paret, semel jussit." Lib. de Providmtid, Cap. 5. 

With respect to the difference between the Stoics, Peripa- 
tetics, and Academicians, the following words of Cicero, 
prove that he saw but little to distinguish them from each 
other: "Peripateticos et Acadeniicos, nominibus difrerentes, 
re congruentes ; a quibus Stoici ipsi verbis magis quam 
sententiis dissenserunt." Academic, lib. ii. 5., and peihaps 
whatReid has remarked upon one of their points of contro- 
versy might be applied as effectually to the reconcilement 
of all the rest: "The dispute between the Stoics and 
Peripatetics was probably all for want of definition. The 
one said they were good under the control of reason, the 
other that they should be eradicated." Essays, vol. iii. 
In short, from the little which I kno v upon the subject, it 
appears to me as difficult to establish the boundaries of 
opinion between any two of the philosophical sects, as it 
would be to fix the land-marks of those estates in the moon, 
which Ricciolus so generously allotted to his brother as- 
tronomers. Accordingly we observe some of the greatest 
men of antiquity passing without scruple from school to 
school, according to the fancy or convenience of the mo- 
ment. Cicero, the father of Roman philosophy, is some- 
times an Academician, sometimes a Stoic; and, more than 
once, he acknowledges a conformity with Epicurus : " non 
sine causa igitur, Epicurus ausus est dicere semper in plu- 
ribus bonis esse sapientem, quia semper sit in voluptatibus." 
Tusculan. Quest, lib. v. — Though often pure in his theo- 
logy, he sometimes smiles at futurity as a fiction ; thus, in 
his Oration for Cluentius, speaking of punishments in the 
life to come, he says, " Quae si falsa sunt, id quod omnes 
intelligunt, quid ei tandem aliud mors eripuit, prater sensum 
doloris?" though here perhaps we should do him justice by 
agreeing with his commentator Sylvius, who remarks upon 
this passage, " Ha?c autem dixit, ut causa? sine subserviret." 
Horace roves like a butterfly through the schools, and now 
wings along the walls of the Porch, and now basks among 
the flowers of the Garden ; while Virgil, with a tone of mind 
strongly philosophical, has left us uncertain of the sect 
which he espoused ; the balance of opinion declares him an 
Epicurean, but the ancient author of his life asserts that he 
was an Academician, and we trace through his poetry the 
tenets of almost all the leading sects. The same kind of 
electric indifference is observable in most of the Roman 
writers. Thus Propertius, in the fine elegy of Cynthia, on 
his departure for Athens, 

Illic vel studiis animum emendare Platonis, 
Incipiam, aut hortis, docle Epicure, tuis. 

Lib. iii. Eleg.21. 

Though Broukhusius here reads, " dux Epicure," which 
seems to fix the poet under the banners of Epicurus. Even 
the Stoic Seneca, whose doctrines have been considered to 
orthodox, that St. Jerome has ranked him amongst th« 
ecclesiastical writers, and Boccaccio, in his commentary 
upon Dante, has doubted, (in consideration of the philoso 
pher's supposed corresoondence with St. Paul,) whether 



42 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



From the pure sun, which, though refracted all 

Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still, 1 

And bright through every change ! — he spoke of Him, 

The lone, 2 eternal One who dwells above, 

And of the soul's untraceable descent 

From that high fount of spirit, through the grades 

Of intellectual being, till it mix 

With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark ; 

Nor even then, though sunk in earthly dross, 

Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch 

Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still ! 

As some bright river, which has roll'd along 

Through meads of flowery light and mines of gold, 

When pour'd at length into the dusky deep, 

Disdains to mingle with its briny taint, 

But keeps awhile the pure and golden tinge, 

The balmy freshness' of the fields it left ! 3 

And here the old man ceased — a winged train 
Of nymphs and genii led him from our eyes. 
The fair illusion fled ; and, as I wak'd, 
I knew my visionary soul had been 
Among that people of aerial dreams 
Who five upon the burning galaxy I* 

Dante should have placed him in Limbo with the rest of the 
Pagans — the rigid Seneca has bestowed such commenda- 
tions on Epicurus, that if only .those passages of his works 
were preserved to us, we could not, I think, hesitate in pro- 
nouncing him an Epicurean. In the same manner we find 
Porphyry, in his wofk upon abstinence, referring to Epicurus 
as an example of the most strict Pythagorean temperance; 
and Lanceiotti, the author of Farfalloni dcgli antichi 
Istorici, has been seduced by this grave reputation of Epi- 
curus into the absurd error of associating him withChrysip- 
pus, as a chief of the Stoic school. There is no doubt, 
indeed, that however the Epicurean sect might have relaxed 
from its original purity, the morals of its founder were as 
correct as those of any among the ancient philosophers ; and 
nis doctrines upon pleasure, as explained in the letter to 
Menceceus, are rational, amiable, and consistent with our 
nature. M. de Sablons, in his Grands homines venges ex- 
presses strong indignation against the Encyclopedistes for 
their just and animated praises of Epicurus, and discussing 
the question, "si ce philosophe etait vertueux,"he denies it 
upon no other authority than the calumnies collected by 
Plutarch, who himself confesses that, on this particular sub- 
ject, he consulted only opinion and report, without pausing 
to investigate their truth. Aw* t>jv Scjrzvvi ou tjjj» ctKs-S-tiixv 
truoTTO-j/uyiv. To the factious zeal of his illiberal rivals the 
Stoics, Epicurus owed these gross misrepresentations of the 
life and opinions of himself and his associates, which, not 
withstanding the learned exertions of Gassendi, have still 
left an odium on the name of his philosophy ; and we ought 
to examine ihe ancient accounts of Epicurus with the same 
degree of cautious belief which, in reading ecclesiastical 
history, we yield to the declamations of the fathers against 
the heretics; trusting as little to Plutarch upon a dogma of 
this philosopher, as we would to St. Cyril upon a tenet of 
Nestorius. (1 801.) 

The preceding remarks, I wish the reader to observe, 
were written at a time when I thought the studies to which 
they refer much mure important and much more amusmg 
than, I freely confess, they appear to me at present. 

1 Lactantius asserts that all the truths of Christianity may 
be found dispersed through the ancient philosophical sects, 
and that any one who would collect these scattered frag- 
ments of orthodoxy, might form a code in no respect differ- 
ing from that of the Christian. "Si extitisset. aliquis, qui 
veritaiem sparsam per singulos per sectasque diffusam 
colligeret in unum, ac redigeret in corpus, is profecto non 
dissentiret a nobis." — Inst. lib. vi. c. 7. 

2 To /zoviv xa« epq/tov. 

3 This fine Platonic image I have taken from a passage 
Father Bouchet's letter upon the Metempsychosis, in- 

lerted in Picarfs Cerem. Relig. torn. iv. 

4 According to Pythagoras, the people of Dreams are 
souls collected together in the Galaxy. Asj^os £s ovapwv, 
X"»t* livZt-u,ycpxV) on ^J/o%54< «s <rvvx.yecr$xt Cpn<riv f'J Xt\v 
y*Kx£nx.v.— Porpkyr. de Antro Nymph. 



TO 

The world had just begun to steal 
Each hope that led me lightly on, 

I felt not, as I us'd to feel, 
And life grew dark and love was gone* 

No eye to mingle sorrow's tear, 
No lip to mingle pleasure's breath, 

No tongue to call me kind and dear— 
'Twas gloomy, and 1 wish'd for death ! 

But when I saw that gentle eye, 
Oh ! something seem'd to tell me then, 

That I was yet too young to die, 
And hope and bliss might bloom again ! 

With every beamy smile, that cross'd 
Your kindling cheek, you lighted home 

Some feeling which my heart had Jost, 
And peace, which long had learn'd to roarn 

'Twas then indeed so sweet to live, 
Hope look'd so new, and love so kind, 

That, though I weep, I still forgive 
The ruin, which they've left behind ! 

I could have lov'd you — oh so well ; — 
The dream, that wishing boyhood knows, 

Is but a bright beguiling spell, 
Which only lives, while passion glows : 

But when this early flush declines, 
When the heart's vivid morning fleets, 

You know not then how close it twines 
Round the first kindred soul it meets ! 

Yes, yes, I could have lov'd, as one 
Who, while his youth's enchantments fall, 

Finds something dear to rest upon, 
Which pays him for the loss of all ! 



DREAMS. 



TO 



In slumber, I prithee how is it 

That souls are oft taking the air, 
And paying each other a visit, 

While bodies are — Heaven knows where ? 

Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it, 

Your soul took a fancy to roam, 
For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet, 

Come ask, whether mine was at home. 

And mine let her in with delight, 

And they talk'd and they kiss'd the time through ■ 
For, when souls come together at night, 

There is no knowing what they may'nt do ! 

And your little soul, Heaven bless her ! 

Had much to complain and to say, 
Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her 

By keeping her prison'd all day. 

" If I happen," said she, " but to steal 
For a peep now and then to her eye, 

Or to quiet the fever I feel, 
Just venture abroad on a sighj 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC 



14b 



*In an instant, she frightens me in 
"With some phantom of prudence or terror, 

For fear I should stray into sin, 
Or, what is still worse, into error ! 

' So, instead of displaying my graces 

Through look, and through words, and through 
mein, 
[ am shut up in corners and places, 

Where truly I blush to be seen!" 

(Jpon hearing this piteous confession, 

My Soul, looking tenderly at her, 
Peclar'd, as for grace and discretion, 

He did not know much of the matter ; 

* But, to-morrow, sweet Spirit !" he said, 
" Be at home after midnight, and then 

( will come when your lady's in bed, 
And we'll talk o'er the subject again." 

So she whisper'd a wor; 1 . in his ear, 

I suppose to her door to direct him, 
ind— just after midnight, my dear, 

Your polite little soul may expect him 



TO MRS. . 

To see thee every day that came, 
And find thee every day the same, 
In pleasure's smile or sorrow's tear 
The same benign, consoling dear ! — 
To meet thee early, leave thee late, 
Has been so long, my bliss, my fate, 
That life, without this cheering ray, 
Which came, like sunshine, every day, 
And all my pain, my sorrow chas'd, 
Is now a lone and loveless waste. — 
Where are the chords she used to touch ? 
Where are the songs she lov'd so much ? 
The songs are hush'd, the chords are still, 
And so, perhaps, will every thrill 
Of friendship soon be lull'd to rest, 
Which late I wak'd in Anna's breast ! 
Yet no — the simple notes I play'd, 
On memory's tablet soon may fade ; 
The songs, which Anna lov'd to hear, 
May all be lost on Anna's ear ; 
But friendship's sweet and fairy strain 
Shall ever in her heart remain : 
Nor memory lose nor time impair 
The sympathies which tremble there ! 



A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. 

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. 1 

Et remigem cantus hortatur. 

Quintilian. 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime 

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time : 



1 1 wrote these words to an air, which our boatmen sung 
to us very frequently. The wind was so unfavourable, that 
they were obliged to row all the way, and we were five days 
ki descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, exposed 
tc an intense sun during tho day, and at night forced to take 



Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn, 1 
Row brothers, row, the stream runs fast, 
The Rapids are near and the day-light 's past ! 

Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl ! 
But, when the wind blows off the shore, 
Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
The Rapids are near and the day-light 's past ! 

Utawas' tide ! this trembling moon, 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon : 
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, 
Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
The Rapids are near and the day-light's past ! 



EPISTLE IX. 
TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE R— WD— N. 

FROM THE BANKS OP THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE 

Not many months have now been dream' d away 
Since yonder sun, (beneath whose evening ray 
We rest our boat among these Indian Isles,) 
Saw me, where mazy Trent serenely smiles 
Through many an oak, as sacred as the groves, 
Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves, 
And hears the soul of father or of chief, 
Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf! 2 



shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks 
that would receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the 
St. Lawrence repays all these difficulties. 

Our Voyageurs had good voices, and sung perfectly in 
tune together. The original words of the air, to which I 
adapted these stanzas, appeared to be a long, incoherent 
story, of which I could understand but little, from the barba- 
rous pronunciation of the Canadians. It begins, 

Dans mon chemin j'ai rencontre 
Deux cavaliers tres-bien monies ; 

And the refrain to every verse was, 

Al'ombre d'un boisje m'en vaisjouer, 
A l'ombre d'un boisje m'en vais danser. 

I ventured to harmonize this air, and have published it. 
Withont that charm, which association gives to every little 
memorial of scenes or feelings that are past, the melody may 
perhaps be thought common and trifling; but I remember' 
when we had entered, at sunset, upon one of those beautiful 
lakes, into which the St. Lawrence so grandly and unex- 
pectedly opens, I have heard this simple air with a pleasure 
which the finest compositions of the first masters have never 
given me; and now, there is not a note of it, which does not 
recal to my memory the dip of our oars in the St. Lawrence, 
the flight of our boat down the rapids, and all those new 
and fanciful impressions to which my heart was alive, dur- 
ing the whole of this very interesting voyage. 

The above 6tanzas are supposed to be sung by those 
voyageurs, who go to the Grande Portage by the Utawas 
river. For an account of this wonderful undertaking, seB 
Sir Alexander Mackenzie's General History of the Fur 
Trade., prefixed to his Journal. 

1 " At the Rapids of St. Ann they are obliged to take out 
a part, if not the whole, of their lading. It is from this spot 
the Canadians consider they take their departure, as it 
possesses the last church on the island, which is dedicated 
to the tutelar saint of voyagers."— Mackenzie's General 
History of the Fur Trade. 

2 " Avendo essi per costume di avere in veneratione gli 
alberi grandi ed antichi, quasi che siano spesso ricettaccoli 



144 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



There listening, Lady ! while thy lip hath sung 
My own unpolish'd lays, how proud I've hung 
On every mellow'd number! proud to feel 
That notes like mine should have the fate to steal, 
As o'er thy hallowing lip they sigh'd along, 
Such breath of passion and such soul of song. 
Oh ! I have wonder'd, like the peasant boy 
Who sings at eve his sabbath strains of joy, 
And when he hears the rude, luxuriant note 
Back to his ear on softening echoes float, 
Believes it still some answering spirit's tone, 
And thinks it all too sweet to be his own ! 
I dream'd not then that, ere the rolling year 
Had fill'd its circle, I should wander here 
In musing awe ; should tread this wondrous world, 
See all its store of inland waters hurl'd 
In one vast volume down Niagara's steep, 1 
Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep, 
Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed 
Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed ! 
Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide 
Down the white Rapids of his lordly tide 
Through massy woods, through islets flowering fair, 
Through shades of bloom, where the first sinful pair, 
For consolation might have weeping trod, 
When banish'd from the garden of their God ! 
Oh, Lady ! these are miracles, which man, 
Cag'd in the bounds of Europe's pigmy plan, 
Can scarcely dream of; which his eye must see, 
To know how beautiful this world can be ! 

But soft ! — the tinges of the west decline, 
And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine. 
Among the reeds, in which our idle bc?t 
Is rock'd to rest, the wind's complaining note 
Dies, like a half-breath'd whispering of flutes ; 
Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots, 
And I can trace him, like a watery star, 2 
Down the steep current, till he fades afar 
Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light, 
Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night ! 
Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray, 
And the smooth glass-snake, 3 gliding o'er my way, 
Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form, 
Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm, 
Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze, 
Some Indian Spirit warble words like these : — 



di anime beate." — Vidro della Valle, Part. Second. Lettera 
16 da igiardini di Sciraz. 

1 When I arrived at Chippewa, within three miles of the 
Falls, it was too late to think of visiting them thai evening, 
and I lay awake all night with the sound of the cataract in 
my ears. The day following I consider as a kind of era in 
my life, and the first glimpse which I caught of those won- 
derful Falls gave me a feeling which nothing in this world 
can ever excite ai'ain. 

To Colonel Brock, of the 49th, who commanded at the 
Fort, I am particularly indebted for his kindness to me dur- 
ing the fortnight T remained at Niagara. Among many 
pleasant days tvhich I passed with him and his brother-offi- 
cers, that of our visit to the Tuscarora Indians was not the 
least interesting. They received us in all their ancient cos- 
tume ; the young men exhibited, for our amusement, in the 
race, th<> bnt-game, etc. while the old and the women sat 
in groups under the surrounding trees, and the picture alto- 
gether was as beautiful as it was new to me. 

2 Anburey in his travels, has notxed this shooting illumi- 
nation which porpoises diffuse at night through the St. Law- 
•ence. — Vol. i. p. 29. 

3 The glass-snake is brittle and transparent. 



From the clime of sacred doves, 1 
Where the blessed Indian roves, 
Through the air on wing, as white 
As the spirit-stones of light, 2 
Which the eye of morning counts 
On the Apallachian mounts ! 
Hither oft my flight I take 
Over Huron's lucid lake, 
Where the wave, as clear as dew, 
Sleeps beneath the light canoe, 
Which, reflected, floating there, 
Looks as if it hung in air ! 3 

Then, when I heve stray'd awhile 
Through the Manataulin isle, 4 
Breathing all its holy bloom, 
Swift upon the purple plume 
Of my Wakon-bird 5 1 fly 
Where beneath a burning sky, 
O'er the bed of Erie's lake, 
Slumbers many a water snake, 
Basking in the web of leaves, 
Which the weeping lily weaves ! s 

Then I chase the fiow'ret-king 
Through his bloomy wild of spring ; 
See him now, while diamond hues 
Soft his neck and wings suffuse, 
In the leafy chalice sink, 
Thirsting for his balmy drink ; 
Now behold him all on fire, 
Lovely in his looks of ire, 
Breaking every infant stem, 
Scattering every velvet gem, 
Where his little tyrant lip 
Had not found enough to sip ! 

Then my playful hand I steep 
Where the gold-thread 7 loves to creep, 



1 The departed spirit goes into the Country of Soul3, 
where, according to some, it is transformed into a dove." 
Charlevoix, upon, the Traditions and the Religion of the 
Savages of Canada. See the curious Fable of the Ameri- 
can Orpheus in Lafitau, torn. i. p. 402. 

2 " The mountains appear to be sprinkled with white stones, 
which glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians 
manetoe aseniah, or spirit-stones." — Mackenzie's Journal. 

3 I was thinking here of what Carver says so beautifully 
in his description of one of Liiese lakes: " When it was calm 
and the sun shone bright, I could sit in my canoe, where the 
depth was upwards of six fathoms, and plainly see huge 
piles of stone at the botton, of different shapes, some of 
which appeared as if they had been hewn ; the water was at 
this time as pure and transparent as air, and my canoe 
seemed as if it hung suspended in that element. It was im- 
possible to look attentively through this limpid medium, at 
the rocks below, without finding, before many minutes were 
elapsed, your head swim and your eyes no longer able to 
behold the dazzling scene." 

4 Aprcs avoir traverse plusieurs isles peu considerables, 
nous en trouvames le quatrieme jour uno fameuse, nominee 
l'isle de Manitoualin. — Voyages du Baron d». Lahontan, 
torn. i. left. 15. Manataulin signifies a place of Spirits, and 
this Island in Lake Huron is held sacred by the Indians. 

5 " The Wakon-bird, which probably is of the same 
species with the bird of paradise, receives its name from the 
ideas the Indians have of its superior excellence; the Wa- 
kon-bird oeing, in their language, the Bird of the Great 
Spirit." — Morse. 

6 The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a consider 
able distance by a large pond-lily, whose leaves spread 
thickly over the surface of the lake, and form a kind of bed 
for the water-snakes in summer. 

7 " The cold-thread is of the vine kind, and grows in 
swamps. The roots spread themselves just under the sur- 
face of the morassps and are easilv drawn out by handfuls 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



145 



Cull from thence a tangled wreath, 
Words of magic round it breathe, 
And the sunny chaplet spread 
O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head, 1 
Till with dreams of honey blest, 
Haunted in his downy nest 
By the garden's fairest spells, 
Dewy buds and fragrant bells, 
Fancy all his soul embowers 
In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers ! 

Oft when hoar and silvery flakes 
Melt along the ruffled lakes ; 
When the gray moose sheds his horns, 
When the track, at evening, warns 
Weary hunters of the way 
To the wigwam's cheering ray, 
Then, aloft through freezing air, 
With the snow-bird 2 soft and fair 
As the fleece that Heaven flings 
O'er his little pearly wings, 
Light above the rocks I play, 
Where Niagara's starry spray, 
Frozen on the cliff, appears 
Like a giant's starting tears ! 
There, amid the island-sedge, 
Just upon the cataract's edge, 
Where the foot of living man 
Never trod since time began, 
Lorie I sit, at close of day, 
While, beneath the golden ray, 
Icy columns gleam below, 
Feather'd round with falling snow, 
And an arch of glory springs, 
Brilliant as the chain of rings 
Round the neck of virgins hung— 
Virgins, 3 who have wander'd young 
O'er the waters of the west 
To the land where spirits rest ! 

T' us have I charm'd, with visionary lay, 
Th A lonely moments of the night away ; 
An-1 now, fresh day-light o'er the water beams ! 
One* more embark'd upon the glittering streams, 
Our boat flies light along the leafy shore, 
Shooting the falls, without a dip of oar 
Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark 
The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark, 
Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood, 4 
While on its deck a pilot angel stood, 



They resemble a large entangled skein of silk, and are of a 
bright yellow." — Morse. 

1 L'oiseau mouche, gros comme un hanneton, est de tou- 
tes couleurs, vives et changeantes : il tire sa subsistence des 
fleurs comme les abeilles; son nid est fait d'un coton tres- 
fin suspend u a une branche d'arbre. — foyages aux Jndes 
Occidentals, par M. Bossu. Second Part, lett. xx. 
1 Emberiza hyemalis. — See Imlaifs Kentucky, page 280. 
3 Lafitau wishes to believe, for the sake of his theory, 
that there was an order of vestals established among the 
Iroquois Indians; but I am afraid that Jacques Carthier, 
upon whose authority he supports himself, meant any thing 
but vestal institutions.by the " cabanes publiques" which he 
met with at Montreal.— See Lafitau, Maurs des Sauvages 
dmericains, etc. torn. i. p. 173. 

4 Vedi che sdegna gli argomenti umani; 
Si che remo non vuot, ne altro velo, 
Che r ale sue tra liti si lontani. 
Vedi come '1 ha dritte verso 'I cielo 

T 



And, with his wings of living light unfurl'd, 
Coasted tho dim shores of another world ! 

Yet oh ! believe me, in this blooming maze 
Of lovely nature, where the fancy strays 
From charm to charm, where every flow'ret's hue 
Hath something strange and every leaf is new ! 
I never feel a bliss so pure and still, 
So heavenly calm, as when a stream or hill, 
Or veteran oak, like those remember'd well, 
Or breeze, or echo, or some wild-flower's smell, 
(For, who can say what small and fairy ties 
The memory flings o'er pleasure, as it flies !) 
Reminds my heart of many a sylvan dream 
I once indulg'd by Trent's inspiring stream ; 
Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights 
On Donnington's green lawns and breezy heights ! 

Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er 
When I have seen thee cull the blooms of lore, 
With him, the polish'd warrior, by thy side, 
A sister's idol and a nation's pride ! 
When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high, 
In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye 
Turn to the living hero, while it read, 
For pure and brightening comments on the dead ! 
Or whether memory to my mind recalls 
The festal grandeur of those lordly halls, 
When guests have met around the sparkling board, 
And welcome warm'd the cup that luxury pour'd ; 
When the bright future Star of England's Throne, 
With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone, 
Winning respect, nor claiming what he won, 
But tempering greatness, like an evening sun 
Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire, 
Glorious but mild, all softness yet all fire !— 
Whatever hue my recollections take, 
Even the regret, the very pain they wake 
Is dear and exquisite ! — but oh ! no more- 
Lady ! adieu — my heart has linger'd o'er 
These vanish'd times, till all that round me lies, 
Stream, banks, and bowers, have faded on my eyes 



IMPROMPTU, 



AFTER A VISIT TO MRS.- 



OF MONTREAL. 



'Twas but for a moment — and yet in that time 
She crowded the impressions of many an houri 

Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime, 
Which wak'd every feeling at once into flower, 

Oh ! could we have stol'n but one rapturous day, 
To renew such impressions again and again, 

The things we could look, and imagine, and say, 
Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then ! 

What we had not the leisure or language to speak, 
We should find some more exquisite mode of ie» 
vealing, 

And, between us, should feel just as much in a week 
As others would take a millennium in feeling ! 



Trattando '1 aere con '1 eterne penne ; 
Che non si mutan, come mortal pelo. 

£>ante } Pur/rator. Cant, ii 



i46 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



WRTTTEN 

ON PASSING DEADMAN'S ISLAND, 1 IN 

THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE, 

LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPTEMBER, 1804. 

See you, beneath yon cloud so dark, 

Fast gliding along, a gloomy bark ! 

Her sails are full, though the wind is still, 

And there blows not a breath her sails to fill ! 

Oh ! what doth that vessel of darkness bear ? 
The silent calm of the grave is there, 
Save now and again a death-knell rung, 
And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung ! 

There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore 
Of cold and pitiless Labrador; 
Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost, 
Full many a mariner's bones are tost ! 

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck 
And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck, 
Doth play on as pale and livid a crew, 
As ever yet drank the church-yard dew ! 

To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast, 
To Deadman's Isle she speeds her fast ; 
By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd, 
And the hand that steers is not of this world ! 

Oh ! hurry thee on — oh ! hurry thee on 
Thou terrible bark ! ere the night be gone, 
Nor let morning look on so foul a sight 
As would blanch for ever her rosy light ! 



TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE, 2 

ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND, OCT. 1804. 
NOZTOT nPO$ASIS rATKEPOT .—Pindar. Pyth. 4. 

With triumph, this morning, oh, Boston ! I hail 
The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail, 
For they tell me I soon shall be wafted in thee, 
To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free, 
And that chill Nova-Scotia's unpromising strand 3 
Is the last I shall tread of American land. 



1 This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly 
enough, is the property of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above 
lines were suggested by a superstition very common among 
sailors, who call this ghost-ship, I think, " the Flying Dutch- 
man." 

We were thirteen days on our passage from Quebec to 
Halifax, and I had been so spoiled by the very splendid hos- 
pitality, with which my friends of the Phaeton and Boston 
hid treated me, that I was but ill prepared to encounter the 
miseries of a Canadian ship. The weather, however, was 
pleasant, and the scenery along the river delightful. Our 
passage through the Gut of Canso, with a bright sky and a 
fair wind, was particularly striking and romantic. 

2 Commanded by Captain J. E. Douglas, with whom I 
returned to England, and to whom I am indebted for many, 
many kindnesses. In truth, I should but offend the delicacy 
of my friend Douglas, and, at the same time, do injustice to 
my own feelings of gratitude, did I attempt to say how 
much I owe him. 

3 Sir John Wentworth, the Governor of Nova-Scotia, 
very kindly allowed me to accompany him on his visit to 
the College, which they have lately established at Windsor, 
about forty miles from Halifax, an£ I was ir.deed most plea- 
santly surprised by the beauty and fertility of the country 
which opened upon us after the bleak and rocky wilderness 
by which Halifax, is surrounded. I was told that, in travel- 



Well — peace to the land ! may the people, at length, 
Know that freedom is bliss, but that honour is 

strength ; 
That though man have the wings of the fetterless 

wind, 
Of the wantonest air that the north can unbind, 
Yet if health do not sweeten the blast with her bloom, 
Nor virtue's aroma its pathway perfume, 
Unblest is the freedom and dreary the flight, 
That but wanders to ruin and wantons to blight I 

Farewell to the few I have left with regret, 
May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget, 
That communion of heart and that parley of soul, 
Which has lengthen'd our nights and illumin'd our 

bowl, 
When they've ask'd me the manners, the mind, or 

the mein 
Of some bard I had known, or some chief I had seen, 
Whose glory, though distant, they long had ador'd, 
WTiose name often hallow'd the juice of their board! 
And still as, with sympathy humble but true, 
I told them each luminous trait that I knew, 
They have listen'd, and sigh'd that the powerful 

stream 
Of America's empire should pass, like a dream, 
Without leaving one fragment of genius to say 
How sublime was the tide which had vanish'd away! 
Farewell to the few — though we never may meet 
On this planet again, it is soothing and sweet 
To think that, whenever my song or my name 
Shall recur to their ear, they'll recall me the same 
I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful, and 

blest, 
Ere hope had deceiv'd me or sorrow deprest ! 

But, Douglas ! while thus I endear to my mind 
The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind, 
I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine eye, 
As it follows the rack flitting over the sky, 
That the faint coming breeze will be fair for our flight, 
And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night. 
Dear Douglas ! thou knowest, with thee by my side, 
With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to 

guide, 
There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas, 
Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to 

freeze, 
Not a tract of the line, not a barbarous shore, 
That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore. 
Oh ! think then how happy I follow thee now, 
When Hope smooths the billowy path of our prow, 
And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind 
Takes me nearer the home where my heart is en- 

shrin'd ; 

Where the smile of a father shall meet me again, 
And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain ; 
Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my 

heart, 
And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part ! — i 
But see ! — the bent top-sails are ready to swell — 
To the boat — I am with thee — Columbia, farewell ' 



ling onwards, we should find the soil and the scenery im 
prove, and it gave me much pleasure to know that the wor 
thy Governor has by no meaus such an " inamabile regnum 
as I was, at first sigh!;, inclined to believe. 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



147 



TO LADY H- 



ON AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS. 

Tunbridge-Wells, August, 1805. 
When Grammont grac'd these happy springs 

And Tunbridge saw, upon her Pantiles, 
The merriest wight of all the kings 

That ever rul'd these gay, gallant isles ; 

Like us, by day, they rode, they walk'd, 

At eve, they did as we may do, 
And Grammont just like Spencer talk'd 

And lovely Stewart smil'd like you ! 

The only different trait is this, 

That woman then, if man beset her, 
Was rather given to saying "yes," 

Because, as yet, she knew no better ! 

Each night they held a coterie, 

Where, every fear to slumber charm'd, 

Lovers were all they ought to be, 
And husbands not the least alarm'd ! 

They call'd up all their school-day pranks, 
Nor thought it much their sense beneath 

To play at riddles, quips, and cranks, 
And lords show'd wit, and ladies teeth. 

As — "Why are husbands like the Mint?" 

Because, forsooth, a husband's duty 
Is just to set the name and print 

That give a currency to beauty. 

" Why is a garden's wilder'd maze 
Like a young widow, fresh and fair ?" 

Because it wants some hand to raise 

The weeds, which " have no business there !" 

And thus they miss'd and thus they hit, 

And now they struck and now they parried, 

And some lay-in of full-grown wit, 
While others of a pun miscarried. 

'Twas one of those facetious nights 
That Grammont gave this forfeit ring, 

For breaking grave conundrum rites, 
Or punning ill, or — some such thing ; 

From whence it can be fairly trac'd 
Through many a branch and many a bough. 

From twig to tp* ig, until it grac'd 
The snowy hand that wears it now. 

All this I'll prove, and then — to you 

Oh, Tunbridge ! and your springs ironical, 

I swear by H — the — te's eye of blue 
To dedicate the important chronicle. 

Long may your ancient inmates give 
Their mantles to your modern lodgers, 

And Charles' loves in H — the — te live, 
And Charles' bards revive in Rogers ! 

Let no pedantic fools be there, 

For ever be those fops abolish' d, 
With heads as wooden as thy ware, 

And, Heaven knows ! not half so polish'd. 

But still receive the mild, the gay, 

The few, who know the rare delight 
Of reading Grammont every day, 

And acting Grammont every night ! 



TO 



Never mind how the pedagogue proses, 

You want n<ot antiquity's stamp, 
The lip that 's so scented by roses, 

Oh ! never must smell of the lamp. 

Old Cloe, whose withering kisses 
Have long set the loves at defiance, 

Now done with the science of blisses, 
May fly to the blisses of science ! 

Young Sappho, for want of employments, 

Alone o'er her Ovid may melt, 
Condemn'd but to read of enjoyments, 

Which wiser Corinna had felt. 

But for you to be buried in books — 

Oh, Fanny ! they're pitiful sages, 
Who could not in one of your looks 

Read more than in millions of pages ! 

Astronomy finds in your eye 

Better light than she studies above, 

And music must borrow your sigh 
As the melody dearest to love. 

In Ethics — 'tis you that can check, 

In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels , 

Oh ! show but that mole on your neck, 
And 'twill soon put an end to their morals 

Your Arithmetic only can trip 

When to kiss and to count you endeavour , 
But eloquence glows on your lip 

When you swear that you'll love me for eveT 

Thus you see what a brilliant alliance 

Of arts is assembled in you — 
A course of more exquisite science 

Man never need wish to go through ! 

And, oh ! — if a fellow like me 

May confer a diploma of hearts, 
With my l;p thus I seal your degree, 

My divine little Mistress of Arts ! 



EXTRACT FROM "THE DEVIL AMONG 
THE SCHOLARS." 1 

TI KAKON O TEAili:. , 

Chrysost. Homil. in Epist. ad Hebraeos. 

***** 
But, whither have these gentle ones, 
The rosy nymphs and black-ey'd nuns. 
With all of Cupid's wild romancing, 
Led my truant brains a dancing ? 
Instead of wise encomiastics 
Upon the Doctors and Scholastics, 
Polymaths, and Polyhistors, 
Polyglots and — all their sisters, 



1 I promised that I would give the remainder ot this 
Poem, but, as my critics do not seem to relish the suhlime 
learning which it contains, they shall have no more of it. 
With a view, however, to the edification of these gentle 
men, I have prevailed on an industrious friend of mine who 
has read a great number of unnecessary books, to illumi 
nate the extract with a little of his precious erudition. 



149 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The instant I have got the whim in, 
Off I fly with nuns and women, 
Like epic poets, ne'er at ease 
Until I've stol'n "in medias res !" 
So have I known a hopeful youth 
Sit down, in quest of lore and truth, 
With tomes sufficient to confound him, 
Like Tohu Bohu, heap'd around him, 
Mamurra 1 stuck to Theophrastus, 
A nd Galen tumbling o'er Bombastus ! 2 
When lo ! while all that's learn'd and wise 
Absorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes, 
And, through the window of his study 
Beholds a virgin, fair and ruddy, 
With eyes as brightly turn'd upon him, as 
The angel's 3 were on Hieronymus, 
Saying, 'twas just as sweet to kiss her — oh ! 
Far more sweet than reading Cicero ! 
Quick fly the folios, widely scatter'd, 
Old Homer's laurell'd brow is batter'd, 
And Sappho's skin to Tully's leather, 
All are confus'd and tost together ! 
Raptur'd he quits each dozing sage, 
Oh woman ! for thy lovelier page : 
Sweet book ! unlike the books of art, 
Whose errors are thy fairest part ; 
In whom, the dear errata column 
Is the best page in all the volume. 4 
But, to begin my subject rhyme — 
'Twas just about this devilish time, 
When scarce there happen'd any frolics 
That were not done by Diabolics, 



1 Mamurra, a dogmatic philosopher, who never doubted 
about any thing, except who was his father. " Nulla de re 
unquam praeterquam de patre dubitavit." In vit. — He was 
very learned—" La dedans, (that is, in his head when it was 
opened,) le Punique heurte le Persan, l'Hebreu choque 
l'Arabique, pour ne point parler de la mauvaise intelligence 
du Latin avec le Grec," etc. See V Histoire de Jilontmaur, 
torn. ii. page 91. 

; J Bombastus was one of the names of that great scholar 
and quack Paracelsus. " Philippus Bombastus latet sub 
■plendido tegmine Aureoli Theophrasti Paraceisi," says Sta- 
delius de circumforanea Literatorum vanitate. — He used to 
fight the devil every night with the broad-sword, to the no 
small terror of his pupil Oporinus, who has recorded the cir- 
cumstance. (See Oporin. Vit. apud Christian. Gryph. 
/it. Stlect. quorundam Eruditissimorum, etc.) Paracel- 
fu» had but a poor opinion of Galen. "My very beard 
(says be in his Paragramum) has more learning in it than 
cither Galen or Avicenna." 

3 The angel, who scolded St. Jerom for reading Cicero, 
asGratian tells the story in his Concordantia discordantium 
Canonum, and says that for this reason bishops were not 
allowed to read the Classics. " Episcopus Gentilium libros 
lion legat. — Distinct. 37. But Gratian is notorious for ly- 
ing — besides, angels have got no tongues, as the illustrious 
pupil of Pantenus assures us. Oux' '-"f 1A"** txuitx, outujj 
»x£»vo«j n yK-joTTX' ov£' xv tipyxvx x»f Saiv ffuuvijj »yytKon;. 
— Clem. Alexand. Stromat. Now, how an angel could 

scold without a tongue, I shall leave the angelic Mrs. 

to determine. 

4 The idea of the Rabbins about the origin of woman is 
singular. They think that man was originally formed with 
a tail, like a monkey, but that the Deity cut off this appen- 
dage behind, and made woman of it. Upon this extraordi- 
nary supposition the following reflection is founded:— 

If such is the tie between women and men, 

The ninny who weds is a pitiful elf, 
For he takes to his tail, like an idiot, again, 

And he makes a deplorable ape of himself. 
Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail, 

Every husband remembers the original plan, 
^ And, knowing his wife is no more than his tail, 

Why he — leaves her behind him as much aa be can. 



A cold and loveless son of Lucifer, 

Who woman scorn'd, nor knew the use of her 

A branch of Dagon's family, 

(Which Dagon, whether He or She, 

Is a dispute that vastly better is 

Referr'd to Scaliger' et caeteris,) 

Finding that in this cage of fools, 

The wisest sots adorn the schools, 

Took it at once his head Satanic in, 

To grow a great scholastic mannikin, 

A doctor, quite as learn'd and fine as 

Scotus John or Tom Aquinas, 2 

Lully, Hales irrefragabilis 

Or any doctor of the rabble is ! 

In languages, 3 the Polyglots, 

Compared to him, were Babel sots ; 

He chatter'd more than ever Jew did, 

Sanhedrim and Priest included ; 

Priest and holy Sanhedrim 

Were one-and-seventy fools to him ! 

But chief the learned demon felt a 

Zeal so strong for gamma, delta, 

That, all for Greek and learning's glory,* 

He nightly tippled " Graeco more," 

And never paid a bill or balance 

Except upon the Grecian Kalends, 

From whence your scholars, when they want tick 

Say, to be At-tick 's to be on tick ! 



1 Scaliger. de Emendat. Tempor. — Dagon was though* 
by others to be a certain sea-monster, who came every day 
out of the Red Sea to teach the Syrians husbandry. See 
Jacques GaffareVs Curiosites inouies, Chap. i. He says 

e thinks this story of the sea-monster " carries little show 
of probability with it." 

2 I wish it were known with any degree of certainty 
whether the Commentary on Boethius, attributed to Thomas 
Aquinas, be really the work of this Angelic Doctor. There 
are some bold assertions hazarded in it: for instance he 
says that Plato kept school in a town called Academia, and 
that Alcibiades was a very beautiful woman whom some of 
Aristotle's pupils fell in love with. "Alcibiades mulier 
fuit pulcherrima, quam videntes quidam discipuli Aristole- 
lis," etc. — See Freytag. Adparat. Litterar. Art. 86. toin.i. 

3 The following compliment was paid to Laurentius 
Valla, upon his accurate knowledge of the Latin language: 

Nunc postquam manes defunctus Valla petivit, 
Non audet Pluto verba Latina loqui. 

Since Val arrived in Pluto's shade, 

His nouns and pronouns ail so pat in, 
Pluto himself would be afraid 

To ask even " what's o'clock" in Latin ! 

These lines may be found in the Auctorum Censio of Dc 
Verdier (page 29.) an excellent critic, if he could have either 
felt or understood any one of the works which he criticises. 

4 It is much lo be regretted that Martin Luther, with all 
his talents for reforming, should yet be vulgar enough to 
laugh at Camerarius for writing to him in Greek. " Master 
Joachim," says he, " has sent me some dates and some rai- 
sins, and has also written me two letters in Greek. As soon 
as I am recovered, I shall answer them in Turkish, that he too 
may have the pleasure of reading what he does not under- 
stand." — "Graeca sunt, legi non possunt," is the ignorant 
speech attributed to Accursius ; but very unjustly — far from 
asserting that Greek could not be read, that worthy juris- 
consult upon the law 6. D. de Bonor. possess- expressly says, 
"Graeca? literae possunt intelligi et legi." (Vide Nov. Lib- 
ror. Rarior. Collection. Fasciculi IV.)—Sc\p\o Carteroma- 
chus seems to think that there is no salvation out of the pale 
of Greek literature: "Via prima salutis Graia pandetur cb 
urbe." And the zeal of Laurentius Rhodomannus cannot 
be sufficiently admired, when he exhorts his countrymen 
" per gloriam Christi, per salutem patriae, per reipublica 
decus et emolumentum," to study the Greek language. Nor 
must we forget Phavorinus, the excellent Bishop of Nocera, 
who, careless of all the usual commttidations of a Christian 
required no further eulogium on his tomb than " Here iiat.h 
a Greek Lexicographer." 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC 



119 



Tn logics, he was quite Ho Panu \ l 

Knew as much as ever man knew. 

He fought the combat syllogistic 

With so much skill and art eristic, 

That though you were the learned Stagyrite, 

At once upon the hip he had you right ! 

Sometimes indeed his speculations 

Were view'd as dangerous innovations. 

As thus — the Doctor's house did harbour a 

Sweet blooming girl, whose name was Barbara : 

Oft, when his heart was in a merry key, 

He taught this maid his esoterica, 

And sometimes, as a cure for hectics, 

Would lecture her in dialectics. 

How far their zeal let him and her go 

Before they came to sealing Ergo, 

Or how they placed the medius terminus, 

Our chronicles do not determine us ; 

But so it was — by some confusion 

In this their logical praelusion, 

The Doctor wholly spoii'd, they say, 

The figure 2 of young Barbara ; 

And thus, by many a snare sophistic, 

And enthymeme paralogistic, 

Beguil'd a maid, who could not give, 

To save her life, a negative. 5 

In music, though he had no ears 

Except for that among the spheres, 

(Which most of all, as he averr'd it, 

He dearly lov'd, 'cause no one heard it,) 

Yet aptly he, at sight, could read 

Each tuneful diagram in Bede, 

And find, by Euclid's corollaria, 

The ratios of a jig or aria. 

But, as for all your warbling Delias, 

Orpheuses, and Saint Cecilias, 

He own'd he thought them much surpass'd 

By that redoubted Hyaloclast 4 

Who still contriv'd by dint of throttle, 

Where'er he went to crack a bottle ! 

Likewise to show his mighty knowledge, he, 

On things unknown in physiology, 

Wrote many a chapter to divert us, 

Like that great little man Albertus, 

Wherein he show'd the reason why, 

When children first are heard to cry, 



1 O IIANT. The introduction of this language into 
English poetry has a good effect, and ought to be more uni- 
versally adopted. A word or two of Greek in a stanza 
•vould serve as a ballast to the most " light a' love" verses. 
Ausonius, among the ancients, may serve as a model: 
Ou y*( ,woi d^is £<ttiv in hac regione /nvovrt 
A54OV ab noBlris tmSiMtx esse xa^nvstif. 
Rosnard, the French poet, has enriched his sonnets and 
odes with many an exquisite morsel from the Lexicon. His 
C/tere Entelrchie, in addressing his mistress, is admirable, 
and can be only matched by Cowley's Jinliperistasis. 

2-The first figure of simple syllogisms, to which Barbara 
belongs, together with Cclarent, Darii, and Ferio. 

3 Because the three propositions in the mood of Barbara 
are universal affirmatives. — The poet borrowed this equi- 
voque upon Barbara from a curious Epigram which Mencke- 
nius gives in a note upon his Essays de Charlataneria 
Eruditorum. In the Nuptia Peripatetics of Caspar Bar- 
laRus, the reader will find some facetious applications of the 
terms of logic to matrimony. Crambe's Treatise on Syllo- 
gisms, in Martinus Scriblerus, is borrowed chiefly from the 
Nuptice Peripatetics of Bailreus. 

4 Or, Glass-Breaker.— Morhofius ha3 given an account of 
this extraordinary man, in a work published 1682. "De 
vitreo csypho fracto," etc. 



I If boy the baby chance to tie, 
He cries OA !— if girl, OE ' 
These are, says he, exceeding fair hints 
Respecting their first sinful parents ; 
" Oh Eve !" exclaimeth little madam, 
While little master cries, " O Adam I" 1 
In point of science astronomical, 
It seem'd to him extremely comical, 
That, once a year, the frolic sun 
Should call at Virgo's house for tun, 
And stop a month and blaze around ner, 
Yet leave her Virgo, as he found her ! 
But, 'twas in Optics and Dioptricks, 
Our daemon play'd his first and top tricks : 
He held that sunshine passes quicker 
Through wine than any other liquor ; 
That glasses are the best utensils 
To catch the eyes bewilder'd pencils ; 
And though he saw no great objection 
To steady light and pure reflection, 
He thought the aberrating rays, 
Which play about a bumper's blaze, 
Were by the Doctors look'd, in common, on, 
As a more rare and rich phenomenon ! 
He wisely said that the sensorium 
Is for the eyes a great emporium, 
To which those noted picture stealers 
Send all they can, and meet with dealers. 
In many an optical proceeding 
The brain, he said, show'd great good breeding ; 
For instance, when we ogle women, 
(A trick which Barbara tutor'd him in,) 
Although the dears are apt to get in a 
Strange position on the retina, 
Yet instantly the modest brain 
Doth set them on their legs again ! 2 
Our doctor thus with " stuff'd sufficiency' 
Of all omnigenous omnisciency, 
Began (as who would not begin 
That had, like him, so much within ?) 
To let it out in books of all sorts, 
Folios, quartos, large and small sorts ; 
Poems, so very deep and sensible, 
That they were quite incomprehensible,' 
Prose, which had been at learning's Fair, 
And bought up all the trumpery there, 



1 This is translated almost literally from a passage in M 
bertus de Secrctis, etc. — I have not the book by me, or 1 
would transcribe the words. 

2 Alluding to that habitual act of the judgment, by which, 
notwithstanding the inversion of ihe image upon the retina^ 
a correct impression of the object is conveyed to the sen- 
sorium. 

3 Under this description, I believe, "the Devil among the 
Scholars" may be included. Yet Leibnitz found out tna 
uses of incomprehensibility, when he was appointed secre- 
tary to a society of philosophers at Nuremberg, merely for 
his merit in writing a cabalistical letter, one word of which 
neither they nor himself could interpret. See the Eloge 
Histnrique de M. de Leibnitz, £ Europe Savant e. — People 
of all ages have loved to be puzzled. We find Cicero 
thanking Atticus for having sent him a work of Serapion 
"ex quo (says he) quidem ego (quod inter nos liceat diceiel 
millesimam partem vix intelligo." Lib. 2. Epist. 4. \nd 
we know that Avicen, the learned Arabian, read Aristotle'* 
Metaphysics forty times over, for the supreme pleasure of 
being able to inform the world that he could not comprehf rid 
one syllable throughout them. — Nicolas Mossa in Fit 
Avicen. 



150 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The tatter'd rags of every vest, 

In which the Greeks and Romans drest, 

And o'er her figure, swoln and antic, 

Scatter'd them all with airs so frantic, 

That those, who saw the fits she had, 

Declar'd unhappy prose was mad ! 

Epics he wrote, and scores of rebusses, 

All as neat as old Turnebus's ; 

Eggs and altars, cyclopaedias, 

Grammars, prayer-books — oh ! 't were tedious, 

Did I but tell /the half, to follow .me ; 

Not the scribbling bard of Ptolemy, 

No — nor the hoary Trismegistus, 

(Whose writings all, thank Heaven! havemiss'dus,) 

Ere fill'd with lumber such a ware-room 

As this great "porcus literarum !" 



FRAGMENTS OF A JOURNAL.* 
TO G. M. ESQ. 

FROM FREDERICKSBURGH, VIRGINIA, 2 JUNE 2d. 

Dear George ! though every bone is aching, 

After the shaking 
I've had this week, over ruts and ridges, 3 

And bridges, 
Made of a few uneasy planks, 4 

In open ranks, 
Like old women's teeth, all loosely thrown 
Over rivers of mud, whose names alone 
Would make the knees of stoutest man knock, 

Rappahannock, 
Occoquan — the heavens may harbour us ! 
Who ever heard of names so barbarous ? 



1 These fragments form but a small part of a ridiculous 
medley of prose and doggerel, into which, for my amuse- 
ment, [ threw some of the incidents of my journey. If it 
were even in a more rational form, there is yet much of it 
too allusive and too personal for publication. 

2 Having remained about a week, at New- York, where I 
saw Madame Jerome Bonaparte, and felt a slight shock of 
an earthquake, (the only things that particularly awakened 
my attention,) I sailed again in the Boston for Norfolk, from 
whence I proceeded on my tour to the northward, through 
Williamsburgh, etc. At Richmond there are a few men of 
considerable talents. Mr. Wickham, one of their celebrated 
legal characters, is a gentleman whose manners and mode 
of life would do honour to the most cultivated societies. 
Judge Marshall, the author of Washington's Life, is an- 
other very distinguished ornament of Richmond. These 
gentlemen, 1 must observe, are of that respectable, but at 
oresent unpopular party, the Federalists. 

3 What Mr. Weld says of the continual necessity of 
balancing or trimming the stage, in passing over some of 
the wretched roads in America, is by no means exaggerated. 
"The driver frequently had to call to the passengers in the 
stage, to lean ou* of the carriage, first at one side, then at 
the other, to prevent it from oversetting in the deep ruts 
with which the road abounds! 'Now gentlemen, to the 
right;' upon which the passengers all stretched their bodies 
half way out of the carriage, to balance it on that side. 
1 Now gentlemen, to the left;' and so on." — Weld's Tra- 
vel*, Letter iii. 

4 Before the stage can pass one of these bridges, the 
driver is obliged to stop and arrange the loose planks of 
which it is composed, in the manner that best suits his 
ideas of safety : and, as the planks are again disturbed by 
the passing of the coach, the next travellers who arrive 
have of course a new arrangement to make. Mahomet 
(as Sale tells us) was at some pains to imagine a precarious 
kind of bridge for the entrance of paradise, in order to en- 
hance the pleasures of arrival : a Virginian bridge I think, 
would have answered his purpose completely. 



Worse than M***'s Latin, 
Or the smooth codicil 
To a witch's will, where she brings her cat ia ' 

1 treat my goddess ill, 
(My muse I mean) to make her speak 'em ; 
Like the Verbum Gracum, 
Spermagoraiolekitholakanopolides, 1 
Words that ought only be said upon holidays, 
When one has nothing else to do. 

But, dearest George, though every bone is aching 
After this shaking, 
And trying to regain the socket, 
From which the stage thought fit to rock it, 
I fancy I shall sleep the better 
For having scrawl'd a kind of letter 

To you. 
It seems to me like — " George, good-night !" 

Though far the spot I date it from ; 
To which I fancy, while I write, 
Your answer back — "Good night t'ye Tom.** 

But do not think that I shall turn all 
Sorts of quiddities, 
And insipidities, 

Into my journal ; 
That I shall tell you the different prices 
Of eating, drinking, and such other vices, 
To " contumace your appetite's acidities !" 2 
No, no ; the Muse too delicate bodied is 

For such commodities ! 
Neither suppose, like fellow of college, she 

Can talk of conchology, 

. Or meteorology ; 
Or, that a nymph, who wild as comet errs, 

Can discuss barometers, 

Farming tools, statistic histories, 

Geography, law, or such like mysteries, 

For which she does'nt care thee skips of 

Prettiest flea, that e'er the lips of 

Catharine Roache look'd smiling upon, 

When bards of France all, one by one, 

Declar'd that never did hand approach 

Such flea as was caught upon Catharine Roache !* 
****** 

Sentiment, George, I'll talk when I've got any, 

And botany — 
Oh ! Linnaeus has made such a prig o'me, 
Cases I'll find of such polygamy 

Under every bush, 
As would make the " shy curcuma" 4 blush ; 



1 ^TriefLxyoexioXsxtJoXxxxvOTrtuXiSss. From the Ly- 
sistrala of Aristophanes, v. 458. 

2 This phvase is taken verbatim from an account of an ex- 
pedition to Drummond's Pond, by one of those many Ame- 
ricans who profess to think that the English language, as ii 
lias been hitherto written, is deficient in what they call re- 
publican energy. One of the savans of Washington is far 
advanced in the construction of a new language for the 
United States, which is supposed to be a mixture of Hebrew 
and Mikmak. 

3 Alluding to a collection of poems, called " La Puce des 
grands-jours de Poitiers." They were all written upon a 
flea, which Stephen Pasquier found on the bosom of the 
famous Catharine des Roaches, one morning during the 
grands-jours of Poitiers. I ask pardon of the learned 
Catharine's memory, for my vulgar alteration of her most 
respectable name. 

4 " Curcuma, cold and shy." — Darwin. 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



151 



Vice under every name and shape, 

From adulterous gardens to fields of rape ! 

I'll send you some Dionae Muscipula, 

A.nd, into Bartram's book if you'i dip, you'll a 

Pretty and florid description find of 

This "ludicrous, lobed, carniverous kind of — "' 

The Lord deliver us ! 
Think of a vegetable being " carniverous !* 

And, George, be sure 
I'll treat you too, like Liancourt, 2 

(Nor thou be risible) 
With all the views so striking and romantic, 
Which one might have of the Atlantic, 

If it were visible. 



And now, to tell you the gay variety 
Of my stage society, 
There was a quaker who room for twenty took, 
Pious and big as a Polyglot Pentateuch ! 
There was his niece too, sitting so fair by, 
lake a neat Testament, kept to swear by. 
What pity, blooming girl ! 
That lips, so ready for a lover, 
Should not beneath their ruby casket cover 

One tooth of pearl ! 3 
But, like a rose beside the church-yard-stone, 
Be doorn'd to blush o'er many a mouldering bone ! 

There was * * * * 
There was a student of the college, too, 

Who said 
Much more about the riches of his head 
Than, if there were an income-tax on brains, 
His head could venture to acknowledge to. 
I ask'd the Scholar, 
If his — what d'ye call her ? 
Alma Mater and her Bishop 
Properly follow'd the Marquis's wish up,* 
And were much advancing 

In dancing ? 
****** 



1 "Observed likewise in these savannas abundance of 
the ludicrous Dionaea Muscipula." — Bartr ami's Travels in 
North America. For his description of this " carniverous 
vegetable, " sue Introduction, p. 13. 

2 This philosophical Duke, describing the view from Mr. 
Jefferson's house, says, "the Atlantic might be seen, were 
it not for the greatness of the distance, which renders that 
prospect impossible.' 1 See his Travels. 

3 Polygnotus was the first painter, says Pliny, who show- 
ed the teeth in his portraits. He would scarcely, I think, 
have been tempted to such an innovation in America. 

4 The Marquis de Chastellux, in his wise letter to Mr. 
Madison, Profe<sorof Philosophy in the College of William 
and Mary ai Williamsburgh, dwells with much earnestness 
on the attention which should be paid to dancing. See his 
Travels. This college, the only one in the state of Virginia, 
and the first which I saw in America, gave me but a melan- 
choly idea of republican seats of learning. That contempt 
for the elegancies of education, which the American demo- 
crats affect, is no where more grossly conspicuous than in 
Virginia: the young men, who look for advancement, study 
lather to be demagogues than politicians ; and as every thing 
that distinguishes from the multitude is supposed to be in- 
vidious and unpopular, the levelling system is applied to 
education, and has had all the effect which its partizans could 
desire, by producing a most extensive equality of ignorance. 
The Abbe Raynal, in his prophetic admonitions to "the Ame- 
ricans, directing their attention very strongly to learned es- 
tablishment-, Bays, "When the youth of a country are seen 
depraved, the nation is on the decline." I know not what 
the Abbe Raynal would pronounce of this nation now, were 
he alive to know the morals of the young students at Wil- 



The evening now grew dark and still ; 

The whip-poor-will 
Sung pensively on every tree ; 
And straight 1 fell into a reverie 
Upon that man of gallantry and pith, 

Captain Smith. 1 
And very strange it seem'd to me, 
That, after having kiss'd so grand a 
Dame as Lady Trabigzanda, 

By any chance he 

Could take a fancy 
To a nymph, with such a copper front as 

Pocahuntas ! 
And now, as through the gloom so dark, 
The fire-flies scatter'd many a fiery spark. 
To one that glitter'd on the quaker's bonnet, 

1 wrote a sonnet. 2 
****** 

And 

two lines more had just completed it ; 
But, at the moment I repeated it, 

Our stage, 
(Which good Brissot with brains so critical 
And sage, 
Calleth the true " machine political,") 3 
With all its load of uncles, scholars, nieces, 
Together jumbled, 
Tumbled 
Into a rut and fell to pieces ! 

****** 
♦ 

Good night ! — my bed must be, 
By this time, warm enough for me, 
Because I find old Ephraim Steady, 
And Miss his niece are there already ! 

Some cavillers 
Object to sleep with fellow-travellers ; 
But * * * * 
Saints protect the pretty quaker, 
Heaven forbid that I should wake her ! 



liamsburgh ! But when he wrote, his countrymen .iad nor 
yet introduced the "doctrinam deos spernentem" into Ame- 
rica. 

1 John Smith, a famous traveller, and by far the most 
enterprising of the first settlers in Virginia. How much ho 
was indebted to the interesting young Pocahuntas, daugbtor 
of King Powhatan, may be seen in all the histories of tins 
colony- In the dedication of his own work to the Dutchess 
of Richmond, he thus enumerates his bonnes fortunes : 
"Yet my comfort is, that heretofore honourable and vertu- 
ous ladies, and comparable but among themselves, have 
offered me rescue and protection in my greatest dangers. 
Even in forraine parts 1 have felt reliefe from that sex. The 
beauteous lady Trabigzanda, when I was a slave to the 
Turks, did all she could to secure me. When 1 overcame 
the Bashaw of Nalbrits in Tartaria, the charitable lady 
Callamata supplyed my necessities. In (he utmost of my 
extremities, that blessed Pocahuntas, the great King's daugh- 
ter of Virginia oft saved my life." 

Davis, in his whimsical Travels through America, has 
manufactured into a kind of romance the loves of Mr.Rolfe 
with this " opaci maxima mundi," Pocahuntas. 

2 For the Sonnet, see page 121. 

3 " The American stages are the true political carriages." 
— Brissofs Trnv/ls, Letter 6th. — There is nothing more 
amusing than the philosophical singeries of these French 
travellers. In one of the letters of Claviere, prefixed to 
those of Brissot, upon their plan for establishing a republic 
of philosophers in some part of the western world, he in- 
treats Brissot to be particular in choosing a place "where 
there are no musquitoes:" forsooth, ne quid respubJica detr 
menti caperet ! 



1 1 



152 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



TO A FRIEND. 

When next you see the black-ey'd Caty t 

The loving languid girl of Hayti, 1 

Whose finger so expertly plays 

Amid the ribbon's silken maze, 

Just like Aurora, when she ties 

A rainbow round the morning skies ! 

Say, that I hope, when winter 's o'er, 
On Norfolk's bank again to rove, 

And then shall search the ribbon store 
For some of Caty's softest love. 

I should not like the gloss were past, 
Yet want it not entirely new ; 

But bright and strong enough to last 
About — suppose a week or two. 

However frail, however light, 
Twill do, at least, to wear at night ; 
And so you'll tell our black-ey'd Caty— 
The loving, languid girl of Hayti ! 



" Errare malo cum Platone, quam cum aliis rccte sentire." 

Cicero. 
. would rather think wrongly with Plato, than rightly with 
any one else. 



1802. 



Fanny, m/ love, we ne'er were sages, 
But, trust me, all that Tully's zeal 

Express'd for Plato's glowing pages, 
All that, and more, for thee I feel ! 

Whate'er the heartless world decree, 
Howe'er unfeeling prudes condemn, 

Fanny ! I'd rather sin with thee, 
Than live and die a saint with them ! 



SONG. 

I ne'er on that lip for a minute have gaz'd, 
But a thousand temptations beset me, 

And I've thought, as the dear little rubies you rais'd, 
How delicious 'f would be — if you'd let me ! 

Then be not so angry for what I have done, 
Nor say that you've sworn to forget me ; 

They were buds of temptation too pouting to shun, 
And I thought that — you could not but let me ! 

When your lip with a whisper came close to my cheek, 

Oh think how bewitching it met me ! 
And, plain as the eye of a Venus could speak, 

Your eye seem'd to say — you would let me ! 

Then forgive the transgression, and bid me remain, 
For, in truth, if I go you'll regret me ; 

Or, oh ! — let me try the transgression again, 
And I'll do all you wish — will you let me ? 



1 Among the West-Indian French at Norfolk, there are 
■ome very interesting Saint Domingo girls, who, in the day, 
•ell mil'inery, etc. and at night assemble in little cotillion 
parties, where they dance away the remembrance of their 
Unfortunate country, and forget the miseries which "les 
jnis des noirs" have brought upou them. 



FROM THE GREEK. 1 
I've prest her bosom oft and oft ; 

In spite of many a pouting cheek, 
Have touch'd her lip in dalliance soft, 

And play'd around her silvery neck. 

But, as for more, the maid 's so coy, 
That saints or angels might have seen us 

She's now for prudence, now for joy, 
Minerva half, and half a Venus. 

When Venus makes her bless me near, 
Why then, Minerva makes her loth ; 

And — oh the sweet tormenting dear ! 
She makes me mad between them both ! 



ON A BEAUTIFUL EAST-INDIAN 

If all the daughters of the sun 

Have loving looks and eyes of flame, 

Go, tell me not that she is one — 
'Twas from the wintry moon she came ! 

And yet, sweet eye ! thou ne'er wert given 
To kindle what thou dost not feel ; 

And yet, thou flushing lip — by heaven ! 
Thou ne'er wert made for Dian's seal ! 

Oh ! for a sunbeam, rich and warm 
From thy own Ganges' fervid haunts, 

To light thee up, thou lovely form ! 
To all my soul adores and wants : 

To see thee burn — to faint and sigh 

Upon that bosom as it blaz'd, 
And be myself the first to die, 

Amid the flame myself had rais'd ! 



TO . 

I know that none can smile like thee, 

But there is one, a gentler one, 
Whose heart, though young and wild it be, 

Would ne'er have done as thine has done. 

When we were left alone to-day, 
When every curious eye was fled, 

And all that love could look or say, 
We might have look'd, we might have said 

Would she have felt me trembling press, 
Nor trembling press to me again ? 

Would she have had the power to bless, 
Yet want the heart to bless me then ? 

Her tresses, too, as soft as thine — 
Would she have idly paus'd to twine 
Their scatter'd locks, with cold delay, 
While oh ! such minutes pass'd away, 



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Avrxp iyu> {*i<ra-0i TK/.0fixi xft<;0Tipxv. 

Paulas Silentiarius, 



EPISTLES, ODES, ETC. 



153 



As heaven has made for those who love ? 

For those who love, and long to steal 
What none but hearts of ice reprove, 

What none but hearts of fire can feel ! 

Go, go — an age of vulgar years 
May now be pin'd, be sigh'd away, 

Before one blessed hour appears, 
Like that which we have lost to-day ! 



AT NIGHT. 1 

At night, when all is still around, 
How sweet to hear the distant sound 

Of footstep, coming soft and light ! 
What pleasure in the anxious beat, 
With which the bosom flies to meet 

That foot that comes so soft at night ! 

And then, at night, how sweet to say 
a 'Tis late, my love !" and chide delay, 

Though still the western clouds are bright ; 
Oh ! happy too the silent press, 
The eloquence of mute caress, 

With those we love exchang'd at night ! 

1 These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its 
device a -Cupid, with the words "at night" written over 



At night, what dear employ to trace, 
In fancy, every glowing grace 

That's hid by darkness from the sight ; 
And guess by every broken sigh, 
What tales of bliss the shrouded eye 

Is telling to the soul at night ! 



TO 



I often wish that thou wert dead, 
And I beside thee calmly sleeping ; 

Since love is o'er, and passion fled, 
And life has nothing worth our keeping ! 

No — common souls may bear decline 
Of all that throbb'd them once so high ; 

But hearts that beat like thine and mine, 
Must still love on — love on or die ! 

'Tis true, our early joy was such, 
That nature could not bear th' excess ! 

It was too much — for life too much — 
Though life be all a blank with less ! 

To see that eye so cold, so still, 

Which once, O God ! could melt in blisa 
No, no, I cannot bear the chill — 

H»r e. burning hate were heaven to this . 



fflBMFIFEffl UKBSg 



OR, 



THE TWOPENNY POST BAG 



E lapsie manibus cecidere tabellae. — Ovid. 



DEDICATION. 



TO ST- 



-N W- 



-LR- 



-E, Esq. 



My dear W — i — E:— It is now about seven years since I promised (and I grieve to think it is almost as 
long since we met) to dedicate to you the very first book, of whatever size or kind, I should publish. Whc 
could have thought that so many years would elapse without my giving the least signs of life upon the 
subject of this important promise ? Who could have imagined that a volume of doggerel, after all, would 
be the first offering that Gratitude would lay upon the shrine of Friendship ? 

If, however, you are as interested about me and my pursuits as formerly, you will be happy to hea? 
that doggerel is not my only occupation ; but that I am preparing to throw my name to the Swans of the 
Temple of Immortality, 1 leaving it, of course, to the said Swans to determine whether they ever will take 
he trouble of picking it from the stream. 

In the mean time, my dear W E, like a pious Lutheran, -you must judge of me rather by my faith 

lan my works, and, however trifling the tribute which I offer, never doubt the fidelity with which I am, and 
"ways shall be, 

Your sincere and attached friend, 
245, Piccadilly, March 4, 1813. THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 



The Bag, from which the following Letters are se- 
lected, was dropped by a Twopenny Postman, about 
two months since, and picked up by an emissary of 
the Society for the S — pp — ss — n of V — e, who, sup- 
posing it might materially assist the private researches 
of that institution, immediately took it to his employ- 
ers and was rewarded handsomely for his trouble. 
Such a treasury of secrets was worth a whole host of 
informers ; and, accordingly, like the Cupids of the 
poet (if I may use so profane a simile) who " fell at 
odds about the sweet-bag of a bee," 2 those venerable 
suppressors almost fought with each other for the 
honour and delight of first ransacking the Post-Bag. 
Unluckily, however, it turned out, upon examination, 
that the discoveries of profligacy, which it enabled 
them to make, lay chiefly in those upper regions of 
society, which their well-bred regulations forbid them 
*o molest or meddle with. In consequence, they 
gained but very few victims by their prize, and, after 
lying for a week or two under Mr. H — tch — d's 
counter, the Bag, with its violated contents, was sold 
"or a trifle to a friend of mine. 

It happened that I had just then been seized with 



1 Aristo, canto 35. 



2 Herrick. 



an ambition (having never tried the strength of my 
wing but in a newspaper) to publish something or 
other in the shape of a book ; and it occurred to me 
that, the present being such a letter-writing era, a lew 
of these two-penny post epistles, turned into easy 
verse, would be as light and popular a task as I could 
possibly select for a commencement. I did not 
think it prudent, however, to give too many Letters at 
first ; and, accordingly, have been obliged (in order to 
eke out a sufficient number of pages) to reprint some 
of those trifles, which had already appeared in the 
public journals. As, in the battles of ancient times, 
the shades of the departed were sometimes seen 
among the combatants, so I thought I might remedy 
the thinness of my ranks, by conjuring up a few dead 
and forgotten ephemerons to fill them. 

Such are the motives and accidents that led to the 
present publication; and. as this is the first time my 
muse has ever ventured out of the go-cart of a news- 
paper, though I feel all a parent's delight at seeing 
little Miss go alone, 1 am also not without a parent's 
anxiety, lest an unlucky fall should ^>e the conse- 
quence of the experiment; and I need not point out 
the many living instances there are of Muses that 
have suffered severely in their heads, from taking too 
early and rashly to their feet. Besides, a book is so 
very different a :hing from a newspaper ! — in the for 



THE TWOPENNY POST BAG. 



155 



mer, your doggerel, without either company or shel- 
ter, must stand shivering in the middle of a bleak 
white page by itself; whereas, in the latter, it is com- 
fortly backed by advertisements, and has sometimes 
even a Speech of Mr. St— ph— n's, or something 
equally warm, for a chauffe-pie, — so that, in general, 
the very reverse of " laudatur et alget" is its destiny. 
Ambition, however, must run some risks, and I 
shall be very well satisfied if the reception of these 
few Letters should have the effect of sending me to 
the Post-Bag for more. 



PREFACE TO THE FOURTEENTH 
EDITION. 

BY A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR. 



In the absence of Mr. Brown, who is at present on 

a tour through , I feel myself called upon, as 

his friend, to notice certain misconceptions and mis- 
representations, to which this little volume of Trifles 
has given rise. 

In the first place, it is not true that Mr. Brown has 
had any accomplices in the work. A note, indeed, 
which has hitherto accompanied his Preface, may 
very naturally have been the origin of such a supposi- 
tion ; but that note, which was merely the coquetry 
of an author, I have, in the present edition, taken 
upon myself to remove, and Mr. Brown must there- 
fore be considered (like the mother of that unique 
production, the Centaur, povx. mi ^ovov 2 ) as alone 
responsible for the whole contents of the volume. 

In the next place it has been said, that in conse- 
quence of this graceless little book, a certain distin- 
guished Personage prevailed upon another distin- 
guished Personage to withdraw from the author that 
notice and kindness, with which he had so long and 
so liberally honoured him. There is not one syllable 
of truth in this story. For the magnanimity of the 
former of these persons I would, indeed, in no case, 
answer too rashly ; but of the conduct of the latter to- 
wards my friend, I have a proud gratification in de- 
claring, that it has never ceased to be such as he must 
remember with indelible gratitude ; — a gratitude the 
more cheerfully and warmly paid, from its not being 
a debt incurred solely on his own account, but for 
kindness shared with those nearest and dearest to him. 

To the charge of being an Irishman, poor Mr. 
Brown pleads guilty; and 1 believe it must also be 
acknowledged that he comes of a Roman Catholic 
family : an avowal which, I am aware, is decisive of 
his utter reprobation in the eyes of those exclusive 
patentees of Christianity, so worthy to have been the 
followers of a certain enlightened Bishop, Donatus, 2 
who held "that God is in Africa, and not elsewhere." 
But from all this it does not necessarily follow that 
Mr. Brown is a Papist; and, indeed, I have the 
strongest reasons for suspecting. that they who say so 
are totally mistaken. Not that I presume to have as- 
certained his opinions upon such subjects ; all I know 
of his orthodoxy is, that he has a Protestant wife and 
two or three little Protestant children, and that he 



J Pindar, Pyth, 2. — My friend certainly cannot 

i zi op-ri y i fstrryopov. 

i Bishop ol Caste JN'igrse, in the fourth century. 



has been seen at church every Sunday, for a whole 
year together, listening to the sermons of his truly 
reverend and amiable friend, Dr. , and behav- 
ing there as well and as orderly as most people. 

There are a few more mistakes and falsehoods 
about Mr. Brown, to which I had intended, with all 
becoming gravity, to advert ; but I begin to think the 
task is altogether as useless as it is tiresome. Calum- 
nies and misrepresentations of this sort are, like the 

guments and statements of Dr. Duigenan, not at all 
the less vivacious or less serviceable to their fabrica- 
tors for having been refuted and disproved a thousand 
times over : they are brought forward again, as good 
as new, whenever malice or stupidity is in want of 
them, and are as useful as the old broken lantern, in 
Fielding's Amelia, which the watchman always keeps 
ready by him, to produce, in proof of riot, against his 
victims. I shall therefore give up the fruitless toil of 
vindication, and would even draw my pen over what 
I have already written, had I not promised to furnish 
the Publisher with a Preface, and know not how else 
I could contrive to eke it out. 

I have added two or three more trifles to this edi' 
tion, which I found in the Morning Chronicle, and 
knew to be from the pen of my mend. 1 The rest of 
the volume remains 2 in its original state. 

April 20, 1814. 



INTERCEPTED LETTERS, ETC. 



LETTER I. 

FROM THE PR — NC — SS CH- E OF W S TO 

THE LADY B — RB — A A — SHL — Y. 3 

My dear Lady Bab, you'll be shock'd, I'm afraid, 
When you hear the sad rumpus your ponies have 

made; 
Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date) 
No nags ever made such a stir in the State ! 

Lord Eld — n first heard — and as instantly pray'd he 
To God and his King — that a Popish young lady 
(For though you've bright eyes, and twelve thousand 

a year, 
It is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear) 
Had insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom, 
Two priest-ridden ponies, just landed from Rome, 
And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks, 
That the dome of St. Paul's was scarce safe fro 

their kicks ! 

Off at once to papa, in a flurry, he flies — 
For papa always does what these statesmen advise, 
On condition that they'll be, in turn, so polite 
As in no case whate'er to advise him loo right — 



1 The Trifles here alluded to, and others, which have 
since appeared, will be found in this edition. — Publisher. 

2 A new reading has been suggested in the original of the 
Ode of Horace, fieely translated by Lord Eld- "n. In the 
line "Sive per Syrteis iter sestuosas," it is proposed, by a 
very trifling alteration, to read "Surtees" instead of "Syr- 
teis," which biiugs the Ode, it is said, more home to the 
noble Translator, and gi/es a peculiar f. >rco and aptness to 
the epithet " rjestuosas." I merely throw out this emenda- 
tion for the learned, being unable myself to decide upon its 
merits. 

3 This young Lady, who is a Roman Catholic has lateiy 
made a present of some beautiful ponies to the P^ — nc — -ss 



156 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



" Pretty doings are here, sir, (he angrily cries, 
While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look 

wise,) 
'Tis a scheme of the Romanists, so help me God ! 
To ride over your most Royal Highness rough-shod — 
Excuse, sir, my tears, they're from loyalty's source — 
Bad enough 'twas for Troy to be sack'd by a Horse, 
But for us to be ruin'd by Ponies, still worse !" 

Quick a council is call'd — the whole cabinet sits — 
The Archbishops declare, frighten'd out of their wits 
That if vile Popish ponies should eat at my manger, 
From that awful moment the Church is in danger! 
As, give them but stabling, and shortly no stalls 
Will suit their proud stomachs but those of St. Paul's. 

The Doctor, and he, the devout man of Leather, 
V — ns — tt — t, now laying their saint-heads together, 
Declare that these skittish young a-bominations 
Are clearly foretold in chap. vi. Revelations — 
Nay, they verily think they could point out the one 
Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon! 

Lord H — rr — by, hoping that no one imputes 
To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes, 
Protests, on the word of himself and his cronies, 
That had these said creatures been Asses, not Ponies, 
The court would have started no sort of objection, 
As Asses were, there, always sure of protection. 

"If the Pr-nc-ss vnll keep them (says Lord C-stl-r-gh,) 
To make them quite harmless the only true way 
Is (as certain Chief-Justices do with their wives) 
To flog them within half an inch of their lives — • 
If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about, 
This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out." 
Or — if this be thought cruel — his Lordship proposes 
u The new VeZo-snaffle to bind down their noses — 
A pretty contrivance, made out of old chains, 
Which appears to indulge, while it doubly restrains ; 
Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness 

checks 
(Adds his Lordship, humanely,) or else breaks their 

necks !" 
This proposal received pretty general applause 
From the statesmen around — and the neck-breaking 

clause 
Had a vigour about it, which soon reconciled 
Even Eld — n himself to a measure so mild. 
So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to nem. con., 
And my Lord C — stl — r — gh, having so often shone 
In the fettering line, is to buckle them on. 
I shall drive to your door in these Vetos some day, 
But, at present, adieu ! — I must hurry away 
To go see my mamma, as I'm suffered to meet her 
For just half an hour by the Qu — n's best repeater. 

C E. 



LETTER II. 

FROM COLONEL M'm— H— N TO G— LD FR— -NC— S 
L — CKIE, ESQ. 

Dear Sir, I've just had time to look 
Into your very learned book, 1 



1 See the Edinburgh Review, No. xl 



Wherein — as plain as man can speak, 
Whose English is half modern Greek — 
You prove that we can ne'er intrench 
Our happy isles against the French, 
Till Royalty in England's made 
A much more independent trade — 
In short, until the House of Guelph 
Lays Lords ard Commons on the shell, 
And boldly sets up for itself! 

All, that can be well understood 
In this said book, is vastly good : 
And, as to what's incomprehensible 
I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible ; 

But, to your work's immortal credit, 

The P e, good sir, — the P e hai lua* * 

(The only book, himself remarks, 
Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke'aJ 
Last levee-morn he look'd it through 
During that awful hour or two 
Of grave tonsorial preparation, 
Which, to a fond admiring nation, 
Sends forth, announced by trump and drum, 
The best-wigg'd P e in Christendom ! 

He thinks, with you, the imagination 
Of partnership in legislation 
Could only enter in the noddles 
Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles, 
Whose heads on firms are running so, . 
They even must have a King and Co. 
And hence, too, eloquently show forth 
On checks and balances, and so forth. 

But now, he trusts, we are coming near a 

Better and more royal era ; 

When England's monarch need but say, 

" Whip me those scoundrels, C — stl — r — gh !" 

Or — " hang me up those Papists, Eld — n," 

And 'twill be done — ay, faith, and well dona 

With view to which, I've his command 

To beg, sir, from your travell'd hand 

(Round which the foreign graces swarm) 

A plan of radical reform ; 

Compiled and chosen, as best you can, 

In Turkey or at Ispahan, 

And quite upturning, branch and root, 

Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot ! 

But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write 
Somewhat more brief than Major C — rtwr — ghl 

Else, though the P e be long in rigging. 

'Twould take, at least, a fortnight's wiggings- 
Two wigs to every paragraph — 
Before he well could get through half. 

You'll send it, also, speedily — 
As, truth to say, 'twixt you and me, 
His Highness, heated by your work, 
Already thinks himself Grand Turk ! 
And you'd have laugh'd, had you seen how 
He scared the Ch — nc — 11 — r just now, 
When (on his Lordship's entering puff 'd) ho 
Slapp'd his back and call'd him "Mufti!" 

The tailors, too, have got commands 
To put directly into hands 



, 



THE TWOPENNY POST BAG 



J57 



All sorts of dulimans and pouches, 
With sashes, turbans, and pabouches 
(While Y — rm — th's sketching out a plan 
Of new moustaches a V Otlomane,) 
And all things fitting and expedient 
To Turhify our gracious R — g — nt ! 

You therefore have no time to waste- 
So send your system.— 

Your's, in haste. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Before I send this scrawl away, 
I seize a moment, just to say 
There 's some parts of the Turkish system 
So vulgar, 't were as well you miss'd 'em. 
For instance in Seraglio matters — 
Your Turk, whom girlish fondness flatters, 
Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool !) 
With tittering, red-cheek'd things from school- 
But here (as in that faify land, 
Where Love and Age went hand in hand ;' 
Where lips till sixty shed no honey, 
And Grandams were worth any money) 
Our Sultan has much riper notions — 
So, let your list of sAe-promotions 
Include those only, plump and sage, 
Who 've reached the regulation-age ; 
That is — as near as one can fix 
From Peerage dates — full fifty-six. 

This rwle '« for favorites — nothing more— 
For, as to wives, a Grand Signor, 
Though not decidely without them, 
Need never care one curse about them ! 



LETTER m. 



FROM G. R. TO THE E" 



We miss'd you last night at the " hoary old sinner's," 
Who gave us, as usual, the cream of good dinners — 
His soups scientific — his fishes quite prime — 
His pates superb — and his cutlets sublime ! 
In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a 

Stomachic orgasm in my Lord E gh, 

Who set-to, to be sure, with miraculous force, 

And exclaim'd, between mouthfuls, " a .He-cook, of 

course !— 
While you live — (what's there under that cover? 

pray, look) — 
While you live — (I'll just taste it) — ne'er keep a She- 
cook. 
'T is a sound Salic law — (a small bit of that toast) — 
Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast ; 
For Cookery's a secret — (this turtle 's uncommon) — 
Like Masonry, never found out by a woman !" 



1 The learned Colonel must allude here to a description 
of the Mysterious Isle, in the History of Abdalla, Son of 
Hanif, where such inversions of the order of nature are said 
to have taken place. — " A score of old women and the same 
number of old men, played here and there in the court, some 
at chuck-farthing, others at tip-cat or at cockles." — And 
again, " There is nothing, believe me, more engaging than 
those lovely wrinkles," etc. etc. — See Tales of the East, 
vol. iii. pp. 607, 608. 

2 This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the 
day after a dinner, given by the M of H — d— t. 



The dinner, you know, wasin gay celebration 
Of my brilliant triumph and H — nt's condemnation; 
A compliment too to his Lordship the J — e 
For his speech to the J — y, — and zounds ! who would 

grudge 
Turtle-soup, though it came to five guineas a bowl, 
To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul? 
We were all in high gig — Roman Punch and Tokay 
Travell'd round, till our heads travell'd just the same 

way, — 
And we cared not for Juries or Libels — no — dam'me ! 

nor 
Even for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner ! 

More good things were eaten than said — but Tom 

T — RRH — T 

In quoting Joe Miller, you know, has some merit, 
And, hearing the sturdy Justiciary Chief 
Say — sated with turtle — " I'll now try the beef" — 
Tommy whisper'd him (giving his Lordship a sly mt) 
" I fear 't will be hung-beef, my Lord, if you try it !" 

And C — md — n was there, who, that morning, had 

gone 
To fit his new Marquis's coronet on ; 
And the dish set before him — oh dish well-devised ! — 
Was, what old Mother Glasse calls, " a calf's head 

surprised !" 

The brains were near ; and once they'd been fine, 

But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine 
That, however we still might in courtesy call 
Them a fine dish of brains, they were no brains at all. 

When the dinner was over, we drank, every one 
In a bumper, "the venial delights ofCrim. Con." 
At which H — d — T with warm reminiscences gloated, 
And E — b'r — h chuckled to hear himself quoted. 

Our next round of toasts was a fancy quite new, 
For we drank — and you'll own 't was benevolent too 
To those well-meaning husbands, cits, parsons, or 

peers, 
Whom we've anytime honour'd by kissing their dears; 
This museum of wittols was comical rather ; 
Old H — d — T gave M y, and /gave . 

In short, not a soul till this morning would budge- 

We were all fun and frolic ! — and even the J e 

Laid aside, for the time, his juridical fashion, 

And through the whole night was not once in a passion . 

I write this in bed, while my whiskers are airing. 
And M — c has a sly dose of jalap preparing 
For poor T — mmy T — rr — T at breakfast to quaff- 
As I feel I want something to give me a laugh, 
And there's nothing so good as old T — mmy, kept close 
To his Cornwall accounts, after taking a dose ' 



LETTER rV 



FROM THE RIGHT HON. P — TR— CK D — G — N — N TO 
THE RIGHT HON. SIR J — HN N — CH — L. 
Dublin. 
Last week, dear N — ch — l, making merry 
At dinner with our Secretary, 



1 This letter, which contained some very heavy inclosures, 
seems to have been sent to London by a private hand, and 



153 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



When all were drunk, or pretty near 
(The time for doing business here,) 
Says he to me, " Sweet Bully Bottom ! 
These Papist dogs — hiccup — od rot 'em ! 
Deserve to be bespatter' d — hiccup — 
With all the dirt even you can pick up — 

But, as the P E — (here 's to him — fill — 

Hip, hip, hurra !) — is trying still 
To humbug them with kind professions, 
And as you deal in strong expressions — 
1 Rogue 1 — ' traitor 1 — hiccup— and all that— 
You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat ! — 
You must indeed — hiccup — that 's flat." 

Yes — " muzzled" was the word, Srit John — ■ 

These fools have clapp'd a muzzle on 

The boldest mouth that e'er ran o'er 

With slaver of the times of yore I 1 — 

Was it for this that back I went 

As far as Lateran and Trent, 

To prove that they, who damn'd us then, 

Ought now, in turn, be damn'd again !— 

The silent victim still to sit 

Of Gr — tt — n's fire and C — nn — g's wit, 

To hear even noisy M — th — w gabble on 

Nor mention once the W — e of Babylon ! 

Oh f'tis too much — who now will be 

The Nightman of No-Popery ? 

What Courtier, Saint, or even Bishop, 

Such learned filth will ever fish up ? 

If there among our ranks be one 

To take my place, 'tis thou, Sir John — 

Thou — who like me, art dubb'd Right Hon. 

Like me, too, art a Lawyer Civil 

That wishes Papists at the devil ! 

To whom then but to thee, my friend, 

Should Patrick 2 his Port-folio send ? 

Take it — '| is thine — his learn'd Port-folio 

With all its theologic olio 

Of Bulls, half Irish and half Roman, — 

Of Doctrines now believed by no man— 

Of Councils, held for men's salvation, 

Yet always ending in damnation — 

(Which show? that since the world's creation, 

Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming, 

Have always had a taste for damning;) 

And many more such pious scraps, 

To prove {what we've long proved perhaps) 

That, mad as Christians used to be 

About the Thirteenth Century, 

There 's lots of Christians to be had 

In this, the Nineteenth, just as mad ! 

Farewell— I send with this, dear N— ch— L ! 
A rod or two I've had in pickle 
Wherewith to trim old Gr — tt — n's jacket. — 
The rest shall go by Monday's packet. 

P.D. 



then put into the Twopenny Post-Office, to save trouble — 
See the Appendix. 

1 In sending this sheet to the Press, however, I lenrrn that 
the " muzzle" has been taken off, and the Right Hon. Doc- 
tor let loose asjain. 

2 This is a bad name for poetry ; but D — gen — n is worse. — 
As rn>(*eritiu8 says, upon a very different subject — 

torquetur Apollo 
Nomine pe "Missus. 



Among the Inclosures hi the foregoing Letter uxis the 

following " Unanswerable Argument against the 

Papists." 

* * * * 

We're told the ancient Roman nation 

Made use of spittle in lustration. 1 — 

(Vide Lactantium ap. Gallaeum 2 — 

I. e. you need not read but see 'em.) 

Now, Irish Papists (fact surprising !) 

Make use of spittle in baptising, 

Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'Fagans, 

Connors, and Tooles, all downright Pagap \ 

This fact 's enough — let no one tell us 

To free such sad, salivous fellows — 

No— no — the man baptised with spittle 

Hath no truth in him — not a tittle ! 



LETTER V. 

FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF C — TO 

LADY . 

My dear Lady ! I've been just sending jut 

About five hundred cards for a snug little R Ait — 
(By the bye, you've seen Rokeby ? — this mi ment got 

mine — 
The Mail-Coach Edition 3 — prodigiously fine !) 
But I can't conceive how, in this very cold weather, 
I'm ever to bring my five hundred together; 
As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat, 
One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet — 
(Apropos — you'd have laugh'd to see Townsend 

last night, 
Escort to their chair, with his staff so polite, 
The "three maiden Miseries," all in a fright ! 
Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts, 
Supervisor of thieves, and chief-usher of ghosts!) 



can't you hit on some 



But, my dear Lady s= 

notion, 
At least for one night, to set London in motion ? 
As to having the R — G — nt — that show is gone by — 
Besides, I've remark'd that (between you and I) 
The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways, 
Have taken much lately to whispering in door-ways ; 
Which — considering, you know, dear, the size of the 

two — 
Makes a block that one's company cannot get through ; 
And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small, 
Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all ! — 
(Apropos, though, of love-work — you've heard it, I 

hope, 
That Napoleon's old Mother 's to marry the Pope,— 
What a comical pair !) — But, to stick to my Rout, 
'T will be hard if some novelty can't be struck out 
Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arrived? 
No Plenipo Pacha, three-tail'd and ten-wived ? 



lustralibus ante sahvis 

Pas. Sat. 2. 



Expiat. 

2 I have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor's 
reference here, and find him, for once, correct. The follow 
ing are the words of his indignant referee GallfEiis— u Asse- 
rere non veremur sacrum baptismum a Papistis profanari, et 
sputi usum in peccatorum expiatione a Paganis non a 
Christianis manasse." 

3 See Mr. Murray's Advertisement about the Mail-Coacb 
copies of Rokeby. 



THE TWOPENNY POST BAG. 



159 



No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name 
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame ? 

! remember the time, three or four winters back, 
When — nrovided their wigs were but decently black — 
A few Patriot monsters, from Spain, were a sight 
That would people one's house for one, night after 

night. 
But — whether the Ministers paid'd them too much — 
And you know how they spoil whatever they touch,) 
Or, whether Lord G — rge (the young man about town) 
Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down — 
One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage, 
And the only stray Patriot seen for an age 
Has been at such places (think how the fit cools) 
As old Mrs. V n's or Lord L— v — rp — l's ! 

But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschits- 

TOPSCHINZOUDHOFF 

Are the only things now make an evening go smooth 
off— 

So, get me a Russian — till death I'm your debtor — 
If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better 
And — Lord! if he would but, in character, sup 
Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up ! 

Au revoir, my sweet girl — I must leave you in haste — 
Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

By the bye, have you found any friend that can construe 
That Latin account, t' other day, of a Monster? 1 
If we can't get a Russian, and that thing in Latin 
Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in. 



LETTER VI. 

FROM ABDULLAH, 2 IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN 
ISPAHAN. 

Whilst thou, Mohassan (happy thou !) 
Dost daily bend thy loyal brow 
Before our King — our Asia's treasure ! 
Nutmeg of Comfort ! Rose of Pleasure !— 
And bear'st as many kicks and bruises 
As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses ; — 
Thy head still near the bowstring's borders, 
And but left on till further orders ! 
Through London streets, with turban fair, 
And caftan floating to the air, 
I saunter on — the admiration 
Of this short-coated population — 
This sew'd-up race — this button'd nation— 
Who, while they boast their laws so free, 
Leave not one limb at liberty, 
But live, with all their lordly speeches, 
The slaves of buttons and tight breeches. 



1 Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin Advertisement of a 
Lusus Niiturae in the Newspapers lately. 

2 I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentle- 
man, but cannot satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From 
his notions of Religious Liberty, however, I conclude that 
he is an importation of Ministers; and he has arrived just in 

time to assist the P e and Mr. L— ck— e in their new 

Oriental Plan of Reform. — See the second of these Letters. 
— How Abdallah's epistle to Ispahan found its way into the 
Twopenny Post Bag is more than I can pretend to account 
for. 



Yet, though they thus their knee-pans fetter 

(They're Christians, and they know no be«eto' 

In some things they're a thinking nation — 

And, on Religious Toleration, 

I own I like their notions quite, 

They are so Persian and so right ! 

You know our Sunnites, 2 hateful dogs ! 

Whom every pious Siiiite flogs 

Or longs to flog 3 — 't is true, they pray 

To God, but in an ill-bred way ; 

With neither arms, nor legs, nor fices 

Stuck in their right, canonic places ! 4 

'Tis true, they worship Ali's name 5 — 

Their heaven and ours are just the same — 

(A Persian's heaven is easily made, 

'Tis but — black eyes and lemonade.) 

Yet — though we've tried for centuries back— 

We can't persuade the stubborn pack, 

By bastinadoes, screws, or nippers, 

To wear th' establish'd pea-green slippers ! s 

Then — only think — the libertines ! 

They wash their toes — they comb their chins/ 

With many more such deadly sins ! 

And (what 's the worst, though last I rank it) 

Believe the Chapter of the Blanket ! 

Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious, 

(Which must, at bottom, be seditious ; 

As no man living would refuse 

Green slippers, but from treasonous views ; 

Nor wash his toes, but with intent 

To overturn the government!) 

Such is our mild and tolerant way, 

We only curse them twice a-day 

(According to a form that 's set,) 

And, far from torturing, only let 

All orthodox believers beat 'em, 

And twitch their beards, where'er they meet 'em 

As to the rest, they're free to do 
Whate'er their fancy prompts them to, 
Provided they make nothing of it 
Tow'rds rank or honour, power or profit ; 
Which things, we nat'rally expect, 
Belong to us, the Establish'd sect, 
Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked !) 
Th' aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket. 



l"C'est un honnete homme," said a Turkish governor 
of de Ruyter; " e'est grand dommage qu'il soit Chretien." 

2 Sunnites and Skiites are the two leading sects into 
which the Mahometan world is divided : and they have gone 
on cursing and persecuting each other, without any inter- 
mission, for about eleven hundred years. The Sunni is the 
established sect in Turkey, and the Shia in Persia; and the 
difference between them turn chiefly upon those important 
points, which our pious friend Abdallah, in the true spirit 
of Shiite Ascendancy, reprobates in this Letter. 

3 "Les Sunnites, qui etaient comme les catholiques de 
Musulmanisme." — D 1 Herb clot. 

4 " In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers 
cross their hands on the lower part of the breast, theSchiahs 
drop their arms in straight lines ; and as the Sounis, at cer- 
tain periods of the prayer, press their foreheads on the ground 
or carpet, the Schiuhs," etc. etc. — Foster's Voyage. 

5"LesTurcs ne detestent pas Ali reciproquement ; au 
contraire ils le reconnaissent," etc. etc. — Chardin. 

6 " The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites 
consider as a great, abomination." — Mariti. 

7 For these points of difference, as well as for the Chapter 
of the Blanket, I must refer the reader (not having the book 
by mc) to Picart's Account of the Mahometan Sects. 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The same mild views of Toleration 
Inspire, I find, this button'd nation, 
Whose Papists (full as given to rogue, 
And only Sunnites with a brogue) 
Fare just as well, with all their fuss, 
As rascal Sunnites do with us. 

The tender Gazel I inclose 
Is for my love, my Syrian Rose- 
Take it, when night begins to fall, 
And throw it o'er her mother's wall. 

GAZEL. 
Rememberest thou the hour we past ? 
That hour, the happiest and the last ! — 
Oh ! not so sweet the Siha thorn 
To summer bees at break of morn, 
Not half so sweet, through dale and dell. 
To camels' ears the tirnvting bell, 
As is the soothing memory 
Of that one precious hour to me ! 

How can we live, so far apart ? 
Oh ! why not rather heart to heart, 

United live and die ? — 
Like those sweet birds that fly together, 
With feather always touching feather, 

Link'd by t hook and eye !' 



LETTER VII. 

FROM MESSRS. L — CK — GT — N AND CO. 
TO , ESQ. 2 

Per Post, *ir, we send your MS. — look d it thro' 
Very sorry — but can't undertake — 't would'nt do. 
Clever work, Sir ! — would get up prodigiously well- 
Its only defect is — it never would sell ! 
And though Statesmen may glory in being unbought, 
In an Author, we think, Sir, that 's rather a fault. 

Hard times, Sir — most books are too dear to be read — 
Though the gold of Good-sense and Wit's small- 
change are fled, 
Yet the paper we publishers pass, in their stead, 
Rises, higher each day, and ('t is frightful to think it) 
Not even such names as F — tzg — r — d's can sink it! 
However, Sir — if you're for trying again, 
And at somewhat that's vendible — we are your men. 
Since the Chevalier C — RR took to marrying lately, 
The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatly — 
No job, Sir, more easy — your Country once plann'd, 
A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land 
Puts your Quarto of Travels clean out of hand. 

An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell— 
And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well. 
Or — supposing you have nothing original in you— 
Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you, 

1 This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is 
literally translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious 
bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find the 
following account in Richardson. — "A sort of bird that is 
raid to have but one wing, on the opposite side to which the 
male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, when they 
Hy, they are fastened together." 

2 From motives of delicacy, and, indeed, of fellow-feel- 
ing, I suppress the name of the Author, whose rejected ma- 
nuscript was inclosed in this letter. — See the Appendix. 



You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Alb — v—a. 
(Mind— not to her dinners— a. second-hand Muse 
Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the Blues, 
Or— in case nothing else in this world you can do— 
The deuce is in't, Sir, if you cannot review! 

Should you feel any touch of poetical glow, 

We've a scheme to suggest— Mr. Sc— tt, you must 

know 
(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row,)* 
Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown, 
Is coming, by long Quarto stages, to Town ; 
And beginning with Rokebv (the job 's sure to pay) 
Means to do all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way. 
Now the Scheme is (though none of our hackneys 

can beat him) 
To start a fresh Poet through Highgate to meet him ; 
Who, by means of quick proofs— no revises— long 

coaches — 
May do a few Villas before Sc— tt approaches — 
Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby, 
He'll reach, without found'ring, at least Woburn- 

Abbev. 

Such, Sir, is our plan— if you're up to the freak, 
'Tis a match! and we'll put you in training, next 

week — 
At present, no more — in reply to this Letter, a 
Line will oblige very much 

Ybur's et cetera 
Temple of the Muses. 



LETTER VIH. 



FROM COLONEL TH — M — S TO 



-»ESQ 



Come to our Fete, 3 and bring with thee 
Thy newest, best embroidery ! 
Come to our Fete, and show again 
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men: 
Which charm'd all eyes that last survey'd it, 

When B l's self inquired "who made ilT 

When Cits came wondering from the East, 
And thought thee Poet Pye, at least! 

Oh ! come— (if haply 't is thy week 
For looking pale) — with paly cheek ; 
Though more we love thy roseate days, 
When the rich rouge pot pours its blaze 
Full o'er thy face, and, amply spread, 
Tips even thy whisker-tops with red- 
Like the last tints of dying Day 
That o'er some darkling grove delay ! 

Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander ! 
(That lace, like H — rry Al — x — nd — r, 
Too precious to be wash'd) — thy rings, 
Thy seals — in short, thy prettiest things ! 
Put all thy wardrobe's glories on, 
And yield, in frogs and fringe, to none 
Bat the great R — g — t's self alone ! 



1 This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence 
which is said to have passed lately between Alb — n — a, 
Countess of B— ck— gh— ms— e, and a certain i*ty«aioui 
Parodist. 

2 Paternoster Row. 

3 This Letter inclosed a Card for the Grand Fete on the 
5th of February 



THE TWOPENNY POST BAG. 



,61 



Who, by particular desire — 

For that ?iight onhi, means to hire 

A dress from Romeo C — tes, Esquire — 

Something between ( twere sin to hack it) 

The Romeo robe and Hobby jacket ! 

Hail, first of Actors !' best of R — g — ts! 

Born for each other's fond allegiance ! 

Both gay Lotharios — both good dressers — 

Of Serious Farce both learned Professors — 

Both circled round, for use or show, 

With cocks'-combs, wheresoe'er they go 

Thou know'st the time, thou man of lore ! 
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor — 
Thou know'st the time, too, well-a-day ! 
It takes to dance that chalk away. 2 
The Ball-room opens — far and nigh 
Comets and suns beneath us lie ; 
O'er snowy moons and stars we walk, 
And the floor seems a sky of chalk ! 
But soon shall fade the bright deceit, 
When many a maid, with busy feet 
That sparkle in the Lustre's ray, 
O'er the white path shall bound and play 
Like Nymphs along the Milky Way ! 
At every step a star is fled, 
And suns grow dim beneath their tread ! 
So passeth life — (thus Sc — tt would write, 
And spinsters read him with delight) — 
Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on, 
Time is not chalk, yet time 's soon gone ! 3 

But, hang this long digressive flight ! 
I meant to say, thou'ltsee, that night, 
W T hat falsehood rankles in their hearts, 

Who say the P e neglects the arts — ■ 

Neglects the arts ! — no, St-^— g ! no ; 
Thy Cupids answer " 'tis not so ,'' 
And every floor, that night, shall tell 
How quick thou daubest, and how well ! 
Shine as thou may'st in French vermilion, 
Thou'rt best — beneath a French cotillion ; 
And still comest off', whate'er thy faults, 
With filling colours in a Waltz ! 
Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date 
To thy best works assign' d by Fate — 
While some chefs-d'ceuvre live to weary one, 
Thine boast a short life and a merry one ; 
Their hour of glory past and gone 
With " Molly, put the kettle on !" 



1 Quem tu, Melpomene, semel 
Nascentem placido lumine, videris, etc. Horat. 
The Man, upon whom thou hast deign'd to look funny 

Thou great Tragic Muse! at the hour of his birth — 
Let them say what they will, that's the man for my money, 

Give others thy tears, but let mc have thy mirth ! 

The aaeertion that follows, however, is not verified in the 
instance before us. 

Ilium 



nou equus impiger 

Curru ducet Jichaico. 
2 To those who neither go to balls nor read the Morning 
Post, it may he necessary to mention that the floors of Ball- 
rooms, in general, are chalked, for safety and for ornament, 
with various fanciful devices. 

3 Hearts are not flint, yet flints are rent, 
Hearts are not steel, hut steel is bent. 
After all, however, Mr. Sc — tt may well say to the Colonel 
(and, indeed, to much better wags than the Colonel,) pxov 

X 



But, bless my soul ! I've scarce a leaf 
Of paper left — so, must be brief. 

This festive Fete, in fact, will be 

The former Fete's facsimile;* 

The same long 3Iasquerade of Rooms, 

Trick'd in such different, quaint costumes, 

(These, P — rt — R, are thy glorious works 

You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks, 

Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice, 

Had clubb'd to raise a Pic-Nic Palace ; 

And each, to make the oglio pleasant, 

Had sent a State-Room as a present ; 

The same fuuteuils and girondoles — 

The same gold Asses, 2 pretty souls ! 

That, in this rich and classic dome, 

Appear so perfectly at home ! 

The same bright river 'mongst the dishes, 

But not — ah ! not the same dear fishes — 

Late hours and claret kili'd the old ones ! 

So, 'stead of silver and of gold ones 

(It being rather hard to raise 

Fish of that specie now-a-days,) 

Some sprats have been, by Y — RM — th's wish, 

Promoted into Silver Fish, 

And Gudgeons (so V — .\s — tt — t told 

The R — g — t) are as good as Gold! 

So, pr'ythee, come — our Fete will be 
But half a Fete, if wanting thee ! 



APPENDIX. 



Letter IV, Page 156. 

Among the papers inclosed in Dr. D — g — N — N s 
Letter, there is a Heroic Epistle in Latin verse, from 
Pope Joan to her Lover, of which, as it is rather a 
curious document, I shall venture to give some ac- 
count. This female Pontiff was a native of England 
(or, according to others, of Germany) who, at an 
early age, disguised herself in male attire, and follow- 
ed her lover, a young ecclesiastic, to Athens, where 
she studied with such effect, that upon her arrival at 
Rome she was thought worthy of being raised to the 
Pontificate. This Epistle is addressed to her Lover 
(whom she had elevated to the dignity of Cardinal,) 
soon after the fatal accouchement, by which her Fal- 
libility was betrayed. 

She begins by reminding him very tenderly of the 
time when they were in Athens — when 

" By Ilissus' stream 
We whispering walk'd along, and learn'd to speak 
The tenderest feelings in the purest Greek ; 
Ah ! then how little did we think or hope, 
Dearest of men ! that I should e'er be Pope ! 3 



1 "C — r! — t — n H e will exhibit a complete facsimile, 

in respect to interior ornament, to what it did at the last 
Fete. The same splendid draperies," etc. etc. — Morning 
Post. 

2 The salt-cellars on the P e's own table were in the 

form of an Ass with panniers. 

3 Spanheim attributes the unanimity with which Joan 
was elected, to that innate and irresistible charm by which 



162 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



That 1 — the humble Joan — whose house-wife art 
Seem'd just enough to keep thy house and heart 
(And those, alas ! at sixes and at sevens,) 
Should soon keep all the keys of all the Heavens !" 

Still less (she continues to say) could they have 
foreseen, that such a catastrophe as had happened in 
Council would befal them — that she 

" Should thus surprise the Conclave's grave decorum 

And let a little Pope pop out before 'em — 

Pope Innocent ! alas, the only one 

That name should ever have been fix'd upon !" 

She then very pathetically laments the downfal of 
her greatness, and enumerates the various treasures 
to which she is doomed to bid farewell for ever. 

" But oh ! more dear, more precious ten times over — 
Farewell, my Lord, my Cardinal, my Lover ! 
I made thee Cardinal — thou madest me — ah ! 
Thou madest the Papa 1 of the World— Mamma !" 

I have not time now to translate any more of this 
Epistle ; but I presume the argument which the Right 
Hon. Doctor and his friends mean to deduce from it, 
is (in their usual convincing strain) that Romanists 
must be unworthy of Emancipation novj, because they 
had a Petticoat Pope in the Ninth Century — Nothing 
can be more logically clear, and I find that Horace 
had exactly the same views upon the subject : 
Romanus (eheu posted, negabitis !) 
Emanciputus Foemin^e 
Fert vallum ! — 

Letter VII. Page 160. 

The manuscript, which I found in the bookseller's 
letter, is a melo-drama, in two Acts, entitled " The 
Book," 2 of which the theatres, of course, had had 
the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs. L — ck- 
— ngt — n and Co. — This rejected drama, however, 
possesses considerable merit, and I shall take the 
liberty of laying a sketch of it before my readers. 

The first Act opens in a very awful manner : — Time, 
three o'clock in the morning — Scene, the Bourbon 

Chamber 3 in C — rl — t — n house — Enter the P e 

R — g — t solus. — After a few broken sentences, he 
thus exclaims : 

Away — away — 
Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book ! 
I meet thee — trace thee, wheresoe'er I look 



her sex, though latent, operated upon I he instinct of the 
Cardinals — " Non vi aliqua, sed concorditcr, omnium in se 
converso desiderio, qu;e sunt blandientis sexus artes, laten- 
tes in hac quanquam !" 

1 This is an anachronism ; for it was not till the eleventh 
century, that the Bishop of Rome took the title of Papa, or 
Universal Father. 

2 There was a mysterious Book, in the 16th century, which 
employed all the anxious curiosity of the learned of that day. 
Every one spoke of it; many wrote against it; though it 
does not appear that any body had ever seen it; and indeed 
Grotius is of opinion that no such book ever existed. It was 
entitled " Liber de tribus impostoribus." (See Morhof. Cap. 
de Libris damnatis.) — Our more modern mystery of " the 
Book" resembles this in many particulars; and, if the num- 
ber of lawyers employed in drawing it up be stated correctly, 
a slight alteration of the title into " a tribus impostoribus" 
would produce a coincidence altogether very remarkable. 

3 The chamber, I suppose, which was prepared for the 
reception of the Bourbons at the first Grand Fete, and 
which was ornamented (all " for the Deliverance of Eu- 
roDe") with fleurs de lys 



I see thy damned ink in Eld — n's brows — 
I see thy foolscap on my H — rtf — n's spouse— 
V — ns — T — t's head recalls thy leathern case, 
And all thy blank-leaves stare from R — u — it's fUce ) 
While, turning here [laying Ms hand on his heart} * 

find, ah, wretched elf ! 
Thy list of dire errata in myself. 

[Walks the stage in considerable agitation.] 
Oh Roman Punch ! oh potent Curacoa ! 
Oh Mareschino ! Mareschino oh ! 
Delicious drams ! why have you not the art 
To kill this gnawing book-worm in my heart ? 

Here he is interrupted in his soliloquy by perceiv 
ing some scribbled fragments of paper on the ground, 
which he collects, and "by the light of two magnifi- 
cent candelabras" discovers the followingunconnected 
words : — " Wife neglected" — " the Book" — " Wrong 
Measures ' ' — " the Queen ' ' — " Mr Lambert ' ' — " the 
R_ G _ T » 

Ha ! treason in my house ! — Curst words, that wither 
My princely soul [shaking the papers violently,] what 

demon brought you hither ? 
"My wife!" — "the Book," too! — stay — a nearer look— i 

[Holding the fragments closer to the candelabras.] 
Alas ! too plain, B, double O, K, Book— 
Death and destruction ! 

He here rings all the bells, and a whole legion of 
valets enter. — A scene of cursing and swearing (very 
much in the German style) ensues, in the course of 
which messengers are dispatched, in different direc- 
tions, for the L — rd Ch — nc — ll — r, the D — E of 
C — b — L — d, etc. etc. — The intermediate time is filled 
up by another soliloquy, at the conclusion of which, 
the aforesaid personages rush on alarmed — the D — E 
with his stays only half-laced, and the Ch — nc — llor 
with his wig thrown hastily over an old red night- 
cap, " to maintain the becoming splendour of his 
office." 1 The R — g — t produces the appalling frag- 
ments, upon which the Ch — nc — ll — r breaks out 
into exclamations of loyalty and tenderness, and re- 
lates the following portentous dream : — 

'Tis scarcely two hqurs since 

I had a fearful dream of thee, my P e ! — 

Methought I heard thee, midst a courtly crowd, 
Say from thy throne of gold, in mandate loud, 
"Worship my whiskers!" — [weeps] not a knee was 

there 
But bent and worshipp'd the Illustrious Pair 
That curl'd in conscious majesty . [Pulls out his 

handkerchief] — while cries 
Of " Whiskers ! whiskers !" shook the echoing 

skies ! — 
Just in that glorious hour, methought, there came, 
With looks of injured pride, a princely dame, 
And a young maiden clinging to her side, 
As if she feared some tyrant would divide 
The hearts that nature and affection tied ! 
The matron came — within her right hand glow'd 
A radiant toi;ch ; while from her left a load 



1 "To enable the individual, who holds the office of 
Chancellor, to maintain it in becoming splendour." {Jiloua 
laugh.) — Lord Custlereagh's Speech upon the Vice Chan 
cellar's Bill. 



THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG 



163 



Of papers hung — [wipes his eyes] — collected in her 

veil — 
The venal evidence, the slanderous tale, 
The wounding hint, the current lies that pass 
From Post to Courier, form'd the motley mass ; 
Which, with disdain, before the throne she throws, 
And lights the pile beneath thy princely nose. 

[Weeps.] 
Heavens, how it blaz'd ! — I'd ask no livelier fire 
\with animation] To roast a Papist by, my gracious 

Sire !— 
But ah ! the Evidence — [weeps again] I mourn'd to 

see — 
Cast, as it burn'd, a deadly light on thee ! 
And Tales and Hints their random sparkles flung. 
And hiss'd and crackled like an old maid's tongue ; 
While Post and Courier, faithful to their fame, 
Made up in stink for what they lack'd in flame ! 
When, lo, ye gods ! — the fire, ascending brisker, 
Now singes one, now lights the other whisker ! — 
Ah ! where was then the Sylphid, that unfurls 
Her fairy standard in defence of curls ? 
Throne, whiskers, wig, soon vanish'd into smoke, 
The watchman cried "past one," and — 1 awoke. 

Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, 
and the R — G — T (who has been very much agitated 
during the recital of the dream,) by a movement as 
characteristic as that of Charles XII. when he was 
shot, claps his hands to his whiskers to feel if all be 
really safe. A privy council is held — all the servants, 
etc. are examined, and it appears that a tailor who had 
come to measure the R — g — t for a dress (which 
takes three whole pages of the best superfine clin- 
quant in describing,) was the only person who had 
been in the Bourbon chamber during the day. It is 
accordingly determined to seize the tailor, and the 
council breaks up with a unanimous resolution to be 
rigorous. 

The commencement of the second Act turns 
chiefly upon the trial and imprisonment of two 
brothers ; but as this forms the under plot of the 
drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it 
the following speech, which is addressed to the two 
brothers, as they " exeunt severally" to prison : 

Go to your prisons — though the air of spring 

No mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring ; 

Though summer flowers shall pass unseen away, 

And all your portion of the glorious day 

May be some solitary beam that falls, 

At morn or eve, upon your dreary walls — 

Some beam that enters, trembling as if awed, 

To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad ! 

Yet go — for thoughts, as blessed as the air 

Of spring, or summer flowers, await you there ; 

Thoughts, such as he, who feasts his courtly crew 

In rich conservatories, never knew ! 

Pure self-esteem — the smiles that light within — 

The Zeal, whose circling charities begin 

With the few loved-ones Heaven has placed it near, 

Nor cease, till all mankind are in its sphere ! — 

The Pride, that suffers without vaunt or plea, 



And the fresh Spirit, that can warble free, 
Through prison-bars, its hymn to Liberty ! 

The Scene next changes to a tailor s work-shop, 
and a fancifully-arranged group of these artists is dis- 
covered upon the shop-board ; their task evidently 
of a royal nature, from the profusion of gold-lace, 
frogs, etc. that lie about. They all rise and come 
forward, while one of them sings the following stan- 
zas, to the tune of " Derry Down." 

My brave brother tailors, come, straighten your knees, 
For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease, 

While I sing of our P e (and a fig for his railers,) 

The Shop-boaod's delight ! the Maecenas of Tailors ! 
Derry down, down, down derry down. 

Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note, 
But his short cut to fame is — the cut of his coat ; 
Philip's son thought the world was too small for his 

soul, 
While our R — g — t's finds room in a laced button 

hole ! 

Derry down, etc. 

Look through all Europe's Kings — at least, those who 

go loose — 
Not a King of them all 's such a friend to the Goose 
So, God keep him increasing in size and renown, 

Still the fattest and best-fitted P- e about town ! 

Derry down, etc. 

During the "Derry down" of this last verse, a 

messenger from the S — c — t — y of S e's Office 

rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect 
of the scene, is the very tailor suspected of the mys- 
terious fragments) is interrupted in the midst of his 
laudatory exertions, and hurried away, to the no small 
surprise and consternation of his comrades. The 
Plot now hastens rapidly in its developement — the 
management of the tailor's examination is highly 
skilful, and the alarm which he is made to betray is 
natural without being ludicrous,, The explanation, 
too, which he finally gives, is not more simple than 
satisfactory. It appears that the said fragments formed 
part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended 
to send to Colonel M'M-> — n upon subjects purely 
professional, and the corresponding bits (which still 
lie luckily in his pocket,) being produced, and skil- 
fully laid beside the others, the following billet-doux 
is the satisfactory result of their juxta position : 

Honoured Colonel — my Wife, who 's the Queen o 

all slatterns, 
Neglected to put up the Book of new pattern 
She sent the wrong Measures too— shamefully 

wrong — 
They're the same used for poor Mr. Lambert, when 

young; 
But, bless you ! they would'nt go half round the 

R— G— T, 
So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient 

This fully explains the whole mystery; the R — g — t 
resumes his wonted smiles, and the drama terminator 
as usual to the satisfaction of all parties. 



THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 

£&- 

Le Leggi dclla Maschera richiedono che una per- 
sona mascherata non sia salutata per nome da uno 
che la conosce nialgrado il suo travestimento. 

Castiglione. 



PREFACE. 



In what manner the following epistles came into 
my hands, it is not necessary for the public to know. 
Tt will be seen by Mr. Fudge's second letter, that he 
is one of those gentlemen whose secret services in 

Ireland, under the mild ministry of my Lord C gh, 

have been so amply and gratefully remunerated. Like 
his friend and associate, Thomas Reynolds, Esq. 
he had retired upon the reward of his honest indus- 
try , but has lately been induced to appear again in 
active life, and superintend the training of that Dcla- 
torian Cohort, which Lord S — dm — th, in his wisdom 
and benevolence, has organized. 

Whether Mr. Fudge, himself, has yet made any 
discoveries, does not appear from the following 
pages ; — but much may be expected from a person of 
nis zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to him, Lord S — d- 
H — th, and the Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of 
all lovers of discoveries are now most anxiously di- 
rected. 

I regret that I have been obliged to omit Mr. Bob 
Fudge's third letter, concluding the adventures of 
his Day, with the Dinner, Opera, etc. etc. — but, in 
consequence of some remarks upon Marinette's thin 
drapery, which, it was thought, might give offence to 
certain well-meaning persons, the manuscript was 
sent back to Paris for his revision, and had not re- 
turned when the last sheet was put to press. 

It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if I 
take this opportunity of complaining of a very serious 
injustice I have suffered from the public. Dr. King 
wrote a treatise to prove that Bentley " was not the 
author of his own book," and a similar absurdity has 
been ss.'erted of me, in almost all the best informed 
literary circles. With the name of the real author 
staring them in the face, they have yet persisted in 
attributing my works to other people ; and the fame of 
the Twopenny Post Bag — such as it is — having ho- 
vered doubtfully over various persons, has at last 
settled upon the head of a certain little gentleman, 
who wears it, I understand, as complacently as if it 
actually belonged to him ; without even the honesty 
of avowing, with his own favourite author, (he will 
excuse the pun) 

E r <o S' O MnPOE ap*f 

I can only add, that if any lady or gentleman, cu- 
iVous in such matters, will take the trouble of calling 



at my lodgings, 245, Piccadilly, I shall have the W 
nour of assuring them, in propria persona, that i am— 
his, or her, 

Very obedient and very humble servant, 
THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER 
April 17, 1818. 



THE 



FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 



LETTER I. 

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY — — 
OF CLONSKILTY, IN IRELAND. 

Amiens. 
Dear Doll, while the tails of our horses are plaiting 

The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door, 
Into very bad French is, as usual, translating 
His English resolve not to give a sou more, 
I kit down to write you a line — only think ! — 
A letter from France, with French pens and French 

ink, 
How delightful ! though, would you believe it, my 

dear? 
I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here ; 
No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come, 
But the corn-fields and trees quite as dull as at home; 
And, but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue, 
I might just as well be at Clonskilty with you ! 
In vain, at Dessein's, did I take from my trunk 
That divine fellow, Sterne, and fall reading " The 

Monk !" 
In vain did I think of his charming dead Ass, 
And remember the crust and the wallet — alas ! 
No monks can be had now for love or for money 
(All owing, Pa says, to that infidel Boney ;) 
And, though one little Neddy we saw in our drive 
Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive ! 

By the bye, though, at Calais, Papa had a toucfi 
Of romance on the pier, which affected me much. 
At the sight of that spot, where our darling ***** 
Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet 1 
(Modell'd out so exactly, and — God bless the mark!-. 
'Tis a foot, Dolly, worthy so Grand a M****que,) 



1 To commemorate the landing of ***** ** ***** f ronj 
England, the impression of his foot is marked on the pier at 
Calais, and a pi'lar with an inscription raised opposite tc 
the spot. 



THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 



165 



He exclaim' d " Oh mon R** !" and, with tear-drop- 
ping eye, 
Stood to gaze on the spot — while some Jacobin, nigh, 
Mutter'd out with a shrug (what an insolent thing !) 
" Ma foi, he be right — 'tis de Englishman's K**g; 
And dat pros pied de cochon — begar, me vil say," 
Dat de foot look mosh better, if turn'd todcr way." 
There 's the pillar, too — Lord ! I had nearly forgot — , 
What a charming idea ! — raised close to the spot; 
The mode being now (as you've heard, I suppose) 
To build tombs over legs,' and raise pillars to toes. 

This is all that 's occurr'd sentimental as yet ; 
Except, indeed, some little flower-nymphs we've met, 
Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views, 
Flinging flowers in your path, and then bawling for 

sous ! 
And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem 
To recall the good days of the ancien regime, 
All as ragged and brisk, you'll be happy to learn, 
And as thin as they were in the time of dear Sterne. 

Our party consists, in a neat. Calais job, 

Of papa and myself, Mr. Connor and Bob. 

You remember how sheepish Bob look'd at Kilrandy, 

But, Lord ! he 's quite alter' d — they've made him a 

Dandy 
A thing, you know, whisker'd, great-coated, and laced, 
Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist : 
Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scho- 
lars, 
With heads so immoveably stuck in shirt-collars, 
That seats like our music-stools soon must be found 

them, 
To twirl, when the creatures may wish to look round 

them ! 
In short, dear, "a Dandy" describes what I mean, 
And Bob 's far the best of the genus I've seen : 
An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious, 
And goes now to Paris to study French dishes. 
Whose names — think, how quick ! — he already knows 

pat, 
A la braise, petits palets, and — what d'ye call that 
They inflict on potatoes ? oh ! maitre d'hote! — 
I assure you, dear Dolly, he knows them as well 
As if nothing but these all his life he had ate, 
Though a bit of them Bobby has never touch'd yet; 
But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks, 
As dear Pa knows the titles and authors of books. 

As to Pa, what d'ye think? — mind it's all enire nous. 
But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you — 
Why he's writing a book — what ! a tale ? a romance ? 
No, ye gods, would it were! — but his Travels in 

France ; 
At the special desire (he let out t' other day) 
Of his friend and his patron, my Lord C — tl — r — gh, 
Who said, "My dear Fudge " 1 forget th' exact 

words, 
And, it's strange, no one ever remembers my Lord's; 
But 'twas something to say, that, as all must allow, 
A good orthodox work is much wanting just now, 
To expound to the world the new — thingummie — 

science, 
Found out by the — what's-its-name — Holy A*****ce, 



1 Ci-git la jambe de, etc. etc. 



And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly, 
Their freedom a joke (which it is, you know, Dolly) 
"There's none," said his Lordship, "if I may be 

judge, 
Half so fit for this great undertaking as Fudge !" 

The matter's soon settled — Pa flies to the Row 
(The Jirst stage your tourists now usually go,) 
Settles all for his quarto — advertisements, praises — 
Starts post from the door, with his tablets — French 

phrases — 
"Scott's Visit," of course — in short, every thing he 

has 
An author can want, except words and ideas : — 
And, lo ! the first thing in the spring of the year, 
Is Phil. Fudge at the front of a Quarto, my dear ! 

But, bless me, my paper 's near out, so I'd better 
Draw fast to a close : — this exceeding long letter 
You owe to a dejeuner a la Fourchelte, 
Which Bobby would have, and is hard at it yet.— 
What's next? oh, the tutor, the last of the party, 
Young Connor : — they say he 's so like Bo.\****TE, 
His nose and his chin, — which Papa rather dreads, 
As the B*****n's, you know, are suppressing all heads 
That resemble old Nap's, and who kiu.»vs but their 

honours 
May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor Con 

nor's? 
Au reste (as we say,) the young lad 's well enough, 
Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue, and stuff; 
A third cousin of ours, by the way — poor as Job 

(Though of royal descent by the side of Mamma,) 
And for charity made private tutor to Bob — 

Entre jious, too, a Papist — how liberal of Pa ! 

This is all, dear, — forgive me for breaking off thus ; 
But Bob 's dejeuner's done, and Papa 's in a fuss. 

B. p. 

P. s. 

How provoking of Pa ! he will not let me stop 
Just to run in and rummage some milliner's shop; 
And my debut in Paris, I blush to think on it, 
Must now, Doll, be made in a hideous low bonnet 
But Paris, dear Paris — oh, there will be joy, 
And romance, and high bonnets, and Madame Le 
Roi! 1 



LETTER II. 

FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO THE LORD VISCOUNT 
C H. 

Pari* 
At length, my Lord, I have the bliss 
To date to you a line from this 
"Demoralized" metropolis; 
Where, by plebeians low and scurvy, 
The throne was turn'd quite topsy-turvy, 
And Kingship, tumbled from its seat, 
"Stood prostrate" at the people's feet; 
Where (still to use your Lordship's tropes) 
The level of obedience slopes 
Upward and downward, as the stream 
Of hydra faction kicks the beam ! 2 



1 A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris. 

2 This excellent imitation of the noble Lord's style shows 
how deeply Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original 



m 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Where the poor palace changes masters 

Quicker than a snake its skin, 
And ***** is rolled out on castors 

While * * * * * ' Sj borne on shoulders in : 
But where, in every change, no doubt, 

One special good your Lordship traces,— 
That 't is the Kings alone turn out, 

And Ministers still keep their places. 

How oft, dear Viscount C gh, 



I've thought of thee upon the way, 
As in my job (what place could be 
Wore apt to wake a thought of thee ?) 
Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting 
Upon my dickey (as is fitting 
Fnr him who writes a Tour, that he 
May more of men and mariners see,) 
I've thought of thee and of thy glories, 
Thou guest of Kings, and King of Tories ! 
Reflecting how thy fame has grown 

And spread, beyond man's usual share, 
At home, abroad, till thou art known, 

Like Major Semple, every where ! 
And marvelling with what powers of breath 
Your Lordship, having speech' d to death 
Some hundreds of your fellow-men, 
Next speech' d to Sovereigns' ears, — and when 
All sovereigns else were dozed, at last 
Speech'd down the Sovereign 1 of Belfast. 
Oh ! 'mid the praises and the trophies 
Thou gain' st from Morosophs and Sophis, 
'Mid all the tritmtes to thy fame, 

There's one thou shouldst be chiefly pleased at- 
That Ireland gives her snuff thy name, 

And C gh's the thing now sneezed at ! 

But hold, my pen ! — a truce to praising — 

Though even your Lordship will allow 
The theme's temptations are amazing ; 

But time and ink run short, and now 
(As thou would'st say, my guide and teacher 

In these gay metaphoric fringes,) 
I must embark into the feature 

On which this letter chiefly hinges ; 2 — 
My Book, the Book that is to prove — 
And will, so help me Sprites above, 
That sit on clouds, as grave as judges, 
Watching the labours of the Fudges ! — 
Will prove that all the world, at present, 
Is in a state extremely pleasant: 
That Europe — thanks to royal swords 

And bayonets, and the Duke commanding- 



Irish oratory, indeed, abounds with such startling peculiari 
ties. Thus the eloquent Counsellor B , in de- 
scribing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said — "He 
put his hand in his breeches pocket, like a crocodile, and." 
etc. etc. 

1 The title of the chief magistrate of Belfast, before 
whom his Lordship (with the "studium immane loquendi" 
attributed by Ovid to that chattering and rapacious class of 
birds, the pies) delivered sundry long and self-gratulatory 
orations, on his return from the Continent. It was at one 
of these Irish dinners that his gallant brother Lord S. pro- 
posed the health of "The best cavalry officer in Europe — 
the Regent!" 

2 Verbatim from one of the noble Visconnc's speeches — 
"And now, Sir, I must embark into the feature on which 
tbls question chiefly hinges." 



Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's, 

Passeth all human understanding: 
That F * * *ce prefers her go-cart * * * * 

To such a coward scamp as ****** 
Though round, with each a leading-string, 

There standeth many a R*y*l crony, 
For fear the chubby, tottering thing 
, Should fall, if left there lo?iey-ponty : 
That England, too, the more her debts, 
The more she spends, the richer gets ; 
And that the Irish, grateful nation ! 

Remember when by thee reign'd over, 
And bless thee for their flagellation, 

As Heloisa did her lover! 1 
That Poland, left for Russia's lunch, 

Upon the side-board snug reposes ; 
While Saxony 's as pleased as Punch, 

And Norway "on a bed of roses !'' 
That, as for some few million souls, 

Transferr'd by contract, bless the clods ! 
If half were strangled — Spaniards, Poles, 

And Frenchmen — 't would n't make much odd*. 
So Europe's goodly Royal ones 
Sit easy on their sacred thrones ; 
So Ferdinand embroiders gaily, 
And ***** eats his salmia 2 daily ; 
So time is left to Emperor Sandy 
To be half Caesar and half Dandy ; 

And (3 ge the R— g — t (who'd forget 

That doughtiest chieftain of the set?) 
Hath wherewithal for trinkets new, 

For dragons, after Chinese models, 
And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo 

Might come and nine times knock their noddles !— 
All this my Quarto '11 prove — much more 
Than Quarto ever proved before — 
In reasoning with the Post I'll vie, 
My facts the Courier shall supply, 
My jokes V — ns — t, P — le my sense, 
And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence ! 

My Journal, penn'd by fits and starts, 
On Biddy's back or Bobby's shoulder,' 

(My son, my Lord, a youth of parts, 
Who longs to be a small place-holder,) 

Is — though I say 't that should n't say — 

Extremely good ; and, by the way, 

One extract from it — only one — 

To show its spirit, and I've done. 

a Jul. thirty-first. Went, after snack, 

To the cathedral of St. Denny ; 
Sigh'd o'er the kings of ages back, 

And — gave the old concierge a penny ! 
{Mem. — Must see Rheims, much famed, 'tis said, 
For making kings and gingerbread.) 
Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately, 
A little B***bon, buried lately, 
Thrice high and puissant, we were told, 
Though only twenty-four hours old ! 3 
Hear this, thought I, ye jacobins; 
Ye Burdetts tremble in your skins ! 



1 See her Letters. 

2 Oyas T£, 0*54 tSovo-i StorptQec @x<ri\-/,ES. 

Homer, Odyss.3. 

3 So described on the coffin: **tres-haute et puissante 
Princesse, agee d'un jour." 



THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 



167 



If R**alty, but aged a day, 
Can boast such high and puissant sway, 
What impious hand its power would fix, 
Full fledged and wigg'd, 1 at fifty-six?" 

The argument 's quite new, you see, 
And proves exactly Q. E. D. — 
So now, with duty to the R — g — t, 
I am, dear Lord, 

Your most obedient, 

Hofel Breteuil, Rue Rivoli. 
Neat lodgings — rather dear for me ; 
But Biddy said she thought 't would look 
Genteeler thus to date my book, 
And Biddy's right — besides, it curries 
Some favour with our friends at Murray's, 
Who scorn what any man can say, 
That dates from Rue St. Honore. 2 



LETTER III. 



P.F. 



FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD 



ESQ,. 



O Dick ! you may talk of your writing and reading, 
Your logic and Greek, but there is nothing like feeding ; 
And this is the place for it, Dicky, you dog, 
Of all places on earth — the head quarters of prog. 
Talk of England, — her famed Magna Charta, I swear, is 
A humbug, a flam, to the Carte 3 at old Very's ; 
And as for your Juries — who would not set o'er 'em 
A jury of tasters, 4 with woodcocks before 'em? 
Give Cartwright his parliaments fresh every year — 
But those friends of short Commons would never do 

here ; 
And let Romilly speak as he will on the question, 
No digest of law 's like the laws of digestion ! 

By the bye, Dick, I fatten — but n'importe for that, 
'T is the mode — your legitimates always get fat; 
There 's the R — g — t, there 's ****' s — and B*n*y 

tried too ; 
But, though somewhat imperial in paunch, 'twouldn't 

do:. 
He improved, indeed, much in this point when he wed, 
But he ne'er grew light r*y*lly fat in the head. 

Dick, Dick, what a place is this Paris ! — but stay — 
As my raptures may bore you, I'll just sketch a day, 
As we pass it, myself, and some comrades I've got, 
All thorough-bred Gnostics, who know what is what. 

After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne, 5 
That Elysium of all that is friand and nice, 



1 There is ;\ fulness and breadth in this portrait of Royal- 
ty, which reminds us of what Pliny says, in speaking of Tra- 
jan's great qualitiea: — "nonne longe lutetjue Pnncipein 
ostentunt V 

2 See the Quarterly Review for May, 1816, where Mr. 
Hobhouse is accused of having written his book" in a back 
^reet of the French capital." 

3 The bill of Fare. — Very, a well-known Restaurateur. 

4 Mr. Bob alludes particularly, I presume, to the famous 
Jury Degustateur, which used to assemble at the Hotel of 
M. Grimod do ia Reyniere, and of which this modern 
Archesiratus has given an account in his Almanach des 
Gourmands, cmnuieme annce, p. 78. 

5 The fairy-l*nd of cookery and gourmandise ; " Pays, oit 
le ciel off:e lesviandes toutes cuitee, et ou,comme on parle, 
•es alouettes tombent toutes roties. Du Latin, coquure." — 
Dacha.t. 



Where for hail they have bons-bons, and claret for rain, 
And the skaiters in winter show off on cream-ice', 
Where so ready all nature its cookery yields, 
Macaroni au parmesan grows in the fields ; 
little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint. 
And the geese are all born with a liver complaint ! 
I rise — put on neck-cloth — stiff, tight as can be — 
For, a lad who goes into the world, Dick, like me, 
Should have his neck tied up, you know — there's no 

doubt of it — 
Almost as tight as some lads who go out of it. . 
With whiskers welloil'd, and with boots that " hold up 
The mirror to nature" — so bright you could sup 
Off the leather like china ; with coat, too, that draws 
On the tailor, who surfers, a martyr's applause ! — 
With head bridled up, like a four-in-hand leader, 
And stays — devil's in them — too tight for a feeder, 
I strut to the old Cafe Hardy, which yet 
Beats the field at a dejeuner h la fourchette. 
There, Dick, what a breakfast ! — oh, not like your ghost 
Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast : 
But a side-board, you dog, where one's eye roves about, 
Like a Turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out 
One's pate of larks, just to tune up the throat 
One's small limbs of chickens, done en papillole, 
One's erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain, 
Or one's kidney — imagine, Dick — done with cham- 
pagne ! 
Then some glasses of Beaune, to dilute — or, mayhap, 
Chajnbertin, 2 which you know 's the pet tipple of Nap, 
And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler, 
Much scruples to taste, but Tni not so partic'lar. — 
You coffee comes next, by prescription ; and then 

Dick, 's 
The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix — 
(If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on 't 
I'd swallow even W — tk — n's, for sake of the end 

on 't)— 
A neat glass of parf ait-amour, which one sips 
Just as if bottled velvet 3 tipp'd over one's lips ! 
This repast being ended, and paid for — (how odd! 
Till a man 's used to paying there 's something so 
queer in it) — 
The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad, 
And the world enough air'd for us, Nobs, to ap- 
pear in 't, 
We lounge up the Boulevards, where — oh Dick, the 

phizzes, 
The turn-outs, we meet — what a nation of quizzes ! 
Here toddles along some old figure of fun, 
With a coat you might date Anno Domini One ; 
A laced hat, worsted stockings, and — noble old soul !— 
A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole ; 
Just such as our Pr — e, who nor reason nor fun dreads, 
Inflicts, without even a court-martial, on hundreds. 4 



1 The process by which the liver of the unfortunate goose 
is enlarged, in order to produce that richest of all ilauiiies, 
the foic gras, of which such renowned /idtrs are made at 
Strasbourg and Toulouse, is I litis described in the Cours 
Qastronomique : — On deplume I'estomac des oies ; on 
attache ensuile ces animaux aux chenets d'une cheminee, et 
on les nourrit devant le feu. La captivite et !a chaleur donnent 
a ces volaliles nne maladie hepatique, qui fait gonller leur 
foie," etc. p. 206. 

2 The favourite wine of Napoleon. 

3 Velours en bouteille. 

4 It was said by Wirquefort, more than a hundred yenis 
ago, " Le Roi d'Angleterre fait seul plus de chevaliers quo 



168 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Here trips a grisette, with a fond, roguish eye 
(Rather eatable things these grisettes by the by;) 
And there an old demoiselle, almost as fond, 
In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde. 
There goes a French dandy — ah, Dick ! unlike some 

ones 
We've seen about White's — the Mounseers are but 

rum ones ; 
Such hats ! — fit for monkeys — I'd back Mrs. Draper 
To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper : 
And coats— \ ■ I wish, if it wouldn't distress 'em, 
They'd club for old B — m — l, from Calais, to dress 'em: 
The collar sticks out from the neck such a space, 
That you'd swear 'twas the plan of this head-lop- 
ping nation, 
To leave there behind them a snug little place 
For the head to drop into, on decapitation ! 
In short, what with mountebanks, Counts andfriseurs, 
Some mummers by trade, and the rest amateurs — 
What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk 
breeches, 
Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats, 
And shoeblacks reclining by statues in uichcp, 
There never was seen such a race of l\ck Sprats. 

From the Boulevards — but hearken \-~ -yes — as I'm a 

sinner, 
The clock is just striking the half-hour for dinner : 
So no more at present — short time for adorning — 
My day must be finish'd some other fine morning. 
Now, hey for old Beauvilliers' ' larder, my boy ! 
And, once thereof the goddess of beauty and joy 
Were to write "Come and kiss me, dear Bob!" I'd 

not budge — 
Not a ste j, Dick, as sure as my name is 

R. Fudge. 



LETTER IV. 



FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO . 

" Return !" — no, never, while the withering hand 
Of bigot power is on that hapless land ; 
While for the faith my fathers held to God, 
Even in the fields where free those fathers trod 
I am proscribed, and — like the spot left bare 
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair 
Amidst their mirth that slavery had been there 3 — 
On all I love — home, parents, friends, — I trace 
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace ! 
No !— lei them stay, who in-their country's pangs 
See nought but food for factions and harangues ; 
Who j'early kneel before their master's doors, 
A nd hawk their wrongs as beggars qo ineir 
Still let your 3 * * * s 



Lous les autres Kois de la Chretiente ensemble." — What 
wouii! he say now ? 

1 A celebrated Restaurateur., 

2 " They used to leave a yard square of the wall of the 
house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, 
either the fore-mentioned verse of the Psalmist (' If I forget 
thee. O Jerusalem,' etc.) or the words — ' The memory of the 
desolation.' " — Leo of Modena* 

3 I have thought it prudent to omit some parts of Mr. 
Phelim Connor's letter. He is evidently an intemperate 
young man, and has associated with his cousins, the Fudges, 
■0 verv little purpose. 



Still hope and suffer, all who can ! — but I, 
Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly. 

But whither ? — every where the scourge pursues — 
Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views. 
In the bright broken hopes of all his race, 
Countless reflexions of the oppressor's face ' 
Every where gallant hearts, and spirits true, 
Are served up victims to the vile and few ; 
While E******, every where— the general foe 
Of truth and freedom, wheresoe'er they glow- 
Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow ' 
O E****** i could such poor revenge atone 
For wrongs that well might claim the deadliest ona 
Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate 
The wrelch who flies from thy intolerant hate, 
To hear his curses, on such barbarous sway, 
Echoed where'er he bends his cheerless way ; — 
Could this content him, every lip he meets 
Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets 
Were this his luxury, never is thy name 
Pronounced, but he doth banquet on thy shame ; 
Hears maledictions ring from every side 
Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride, 
Which vaunts its own, and scorns all rights beside ; 
That low and desperate envy, which, to blast 
A neighbour's blessings, risks the few thou hast ; — 
That monster, self, too gross to be conceal'd, 
Which ever lurks behind thy proffer' d shield ; 
That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need, 
Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed, 
Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gain'dj 
Back to his masters, ready gagg'd and chain'd ! 
Worthy associate of that band of kings, 
That royal, ravening flock, whose vampire wings 
O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood, 
And fan her into dreams of promised good, 
Of hope, of freedom — but to drain her blood ! 
If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss 
That vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than 

this, — 
That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart, 
Made thee the fallen and tarnish'd thing thou art ; 
That, as the Centaur 1 gave the infected vesi, 
In which he died, to rack his conqueror's breast, 

We sent thee C gh : — as heaps of dead 

Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread, 
So hath our land breath'd out- — thy fame to dun, 
Thy strength to waste, and rot thee, soul and limb— 
Her worst infections all condensed in him ' 

****** 

When will the world shake off" such yokes ! oh, whet 

Will that redeeming day shine out on men, 

That shall behold them rise, erect and free 

As Heaven and Nature meant mankind should be 

When Reason shall no longer blindly bow 

To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow, 

Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now; 

Nor Conquest dare to desolate God's earth; 

Nor drunken Victory, with a Nero's mirth, 

Strike her lewd harp amidst a people's groans ;— • 

But, built on love, the world's exalted thrones 



1 Memhra et Hcrculeos toros 

Urit lues Nes-sen. 

Ille, ille victor vincitur.— Senec. Hercul. (F.t 



THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 



169 



Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given — 
Those bright, those sole legitimates of Heaven ! 

When will this be ?— or, oh ! is it in truth, 
But one of those sweet day-break dreams of youth, 
In which the soul, as round her morning springs, 
'Twixt sleep and waking, sees such dazzling tlungs ! 
And must the hope, as vain as it is bright, 
Be all given up ? — and are they only right, 
Who sny this world of thinking souls was made 
To be by kings partitioned, truck'd, and weigh'd 
In scales that, ever since the world begun, 
Have counted millions but as dust to one ? 
Are they the only wise, who laugh to scorn 
The rights, the freedom to which man was born ; 
Who * * * * * * 

****** 

Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power, 
Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour ; 
Worship each would-be god, that o'er them moves, 
And take the thundering of his brass for Jove's ! 
If this be wisdom, then farewell my books, 
Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks, 
Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair, 
Of living truth, that now must stagnate there ! — . 
Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light, 
Instead of Greece, and her immortal fight 
For Liberty, which once awak'd my strings, 
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings, 
The High L*git**ates, the Holy Band, 
Who, bolder even than he of Sparta's land, 
Against whom millions, panting to be free, 
Would guard the pass of right-line tyranny ! 
Instead of him, the Athenian bard, whose blade 
Had stood the onset which his pen pourtray'd, 
Welcome ***** 
* * . * * * * 

And, 'stead of Aristides — woe the day 

Such names should mingle ! — welcome C gh ! 

Here break we off, at this unhallow'd name, 
Like priests of old, when words ill-ornen'd came. 
My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell, 
Thoughts that * * * * 

Thoughts that — could patience hold — 't were wiser far 
To leave still hid and burning where they are ! 



LETTER V. 

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY . 

What a time since I wrote ! — I'm a sad naughty 

girl- 
Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl, 
Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum 
Between all its twirls gives a letter to note 'em. 
But, Lord, such a place ! and tnen, Dolly, my dresses, 
My gowns, so divine ! — there's no language expresses, 
Except just the two words "superbe," " magnifique," 
The trimmings of that which 1 had home last week ! 
It is call'd — I forget — a la — something which sounded 
Like alicampane — but, in truth, I'm confounded 
And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's 
(Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's : 
What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal, 
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel, 



On^s hair, and one's cutlets both en papillote, 
And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote, 
I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase, 
Between beef (i la Psychi and curls h la braise.— 
But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite <"i la Francaiset 
With my bonnet — so beautiful ! — high up and poking. 
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from 
smoking. 

Where shall I begin with the endless delights 
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights — 
This dear busy place, where there 's nothing trans- 
acting, 
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting ? 

Imprimis, the Opera — mercy, my ears ! 

Brother Bobby's remark t' other night was a true 
one; 
" This must be the music," said he, " of the spears, 

For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run through 
one !" 
Pa says (and you know, love, his book 's to make out,) 
'Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about; 
That this passion for roaring has come in of late, 
Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State. 
What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm ! 

What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose 
of it! 
If, when of age, every man in the realm 

Had a voice like old Lais, 1 and chose to make use 
of it! 
No — never was known m this riotous sphere 
Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear 
So bad too, you'd swear that the god of both arts, 

Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic 
For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts, 

And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic ! 

But, the dancing — ah parlez moi, Dolly, de ca — 
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa. 
Such beauty — such grace — oh ye sylphs of romance! 

Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if she has 
One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance 

Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias ! 
Fanny Bias in Flora — dear creature ! — you'd sweat, 
When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round, 
That her steps are of light, that her home is the air, 

And she only par complaisance touches the ground 
And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels 

Her black flowing hair, and by daemons is driven, 
Oh ! who does not envy those rude little devils, 

That hold her, and hug her, and keep her from 
heaven ? 
Then, the music — so softly its cadences die, 
So divinely — oh, Dolly ! between you and I, 
It 's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh 
To make love to me then— you've a soul, and can 

judge 
What a crisis 't would be for your friend Biddy Fudge! 

The next place (which Bobby has near lost Ins heart 
in,) 

They call it the Play-house— I think— of Saint Mar- 
tin ; 2 



1 The oldest, most celebrated, and most noisy of the sing- 
ers at the French Opera. 

The Theatre de la Porte St.Martin,\vhich was built when 
the Opera-house in the Palais Roval was burned down, m 



170 



MOORE'S WORKS 



Quite charming — and very religious — what folly 
To say that the French are not pious, dear Dully, 
When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly, 
The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly ; 
And, doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts, 
They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts. 
Here Daniel, in pantomime, 1 bids bold defiance 
To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions, 
While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet, 
In very thin clothing, and hut little of it ; — 
Here Begrand, 2 who shines in this scriptural path, 

As the lovely Susanna, without even a relic 
Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath 

In a manner, that, Bob says, is quite Eve-angelic ! 

But, in short, dear, 't would take me a month to recite 
All the exquisite places we 're at, day and night ; 
And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad 
Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had. 

Last night, at the Beaujon, 3 a place where — I doubt 
If I well can describe — there are cars that set out 
From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air, 
And rattle you down, Doll — you hardly know where. 
These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through 
This delightfully dangerous journey, hold two. 
Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether 

You'll venture down with him — you smile — 'tis a 
match ; 
In an inst-int you're seated, and down both together 

Go thundering, as if you went post to old Scratch ! 4 
Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark' d 
On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark' d, 
The impatience of some for the perilous flight, 
The forc'd giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright, 
That there came up — imagine, dear Doll, if you can — 
A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd man, 
With mustachios that gave (what we read of so oft,) 
The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft, 
As Hysnas in love may be fancied to look, or 
A something between Abelard and old Blucher ! 
Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncovering his head, 
(Rather bald, but so warlike !) in bad English said, 
" Ah ! my dear — if Ma'mselle vil be so very good — 
Just for von little course" — though I scarce under- 
stood 
What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him, I would. 
Off we set — and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew 
whether 

My head or my heels were the uppermost then, 



178). A few dnys after this dreadful fire, which lasted more 
than a week, and in which several persons perished, the Pa- 
risian elegantes displayed flame-coloured dresses, " couleur 
feu de l'Opera!" — Dulaure, Curiositcs de Paris. 

1 A piece very popular last year, called " Daniel, ou la 
Fosse mix Lions." The following scene will give an idea 
of the daring suhlimity of these scriptural pantomimes. 
il Scrne20. — La fournaise devient un berceau de nunges 
azures, au fond duquel est un groupe de nuages plus lumi- 
neux, et au milieu 'Jehovah' au centre d'un cercle de ray- 
ons brillnns, qui annonce la presence de l'Eternel." 

2 Madame Begrand, a finely formed womnn, who acts in 
•' Susanna and the Elders," " L'amour et la Folie," etc. etc. 

3 The Promenades Aeriennes, or French Mountains. — 
See a description of this singular and fantastic place of 
amusement, in a pamphlet, truly worthy of it, by F. F. Cot- 
terel, Medecin, Docteur de la Faculte de Paris, etc. etc. 

4 According to Dr. Cotterel, the cars go at the rate of 
fovtv-eijiht miles an hour 



For 't was like heaven and earth, Dolly, coming to 
gether, — 

Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again. 
And oh ! as I gazed on the features and air 

Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, 
I could fancy almost he and I were a pair 

Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side, 
Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a 
Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara ! 

This achiev'd, through the gardens 1 we saunter'o 
about, 
Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd " magnifique !" at 
each cracker, 
And, when t' was all o'er, the dear man saw us out 
With the air, I will say, of a prince, to our fiacre. 
Now, hear me — this stranger — it may be mere 1'oily- — 
But who do you think we all think it is, Dolly ? 
Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia, 
Who 's here now incog. 2 — he, who made such a fuss, 

you 
Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff, 
When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off! 
Pa says he 's come here to look after his money 
(Not taking things now as he used under Boney,) 
Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he 

swore, 
Looking sharp to the silver received at the door. 
Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen 
(Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen) 
Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is, 
Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris. 
Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief 
Should — unless 't would to utter despairing its foil} 
push — 
Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief 

By rattling, as Bob says, "like shot through a holly- 
bush." 

I must now bid adieu — only think, Dolly, think 

If this should be the King — I have scarce slept a winfc 

With imagining how it will sound in the papers, 

And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge, 
When they read that Count Ruppin, to drive awa} 
vapours, 

Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss Biddy Fudge 

Nota Bene. — Papa's almost certain 't is he — 
For he knows the L*git**ate cut, and could sae, 
In the way he went poising, and managed to tower 
So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power. 



LETTER VI. 

FROM PHIL. PUDGE, ESQ. TO HIS BROTHER TIM 
FUDGE, ESQ. BARRISTER AT LAW. 

Yours of the 12th received just now — 
Thanks for the hint, my trusty brother ! 



1 In the Cafe attached to these gardens there are to b< 
(as Dr. Cotterel informs ns,) "douze negres, tres-alertes 
qui coutrasteront, par l'ebene de leur peau avec la teint de 
lis et de roses de nos belles. Les glaces et les sorbets servii 
par une main bien noire, fera davantage ressortir Talbatrc 
des bras arrondis ,'e *celies-ci." — P. 2'2 

2 His Majesty, who was at Paris under the travelling 
name of Count Ruppin, is known to have gone down th« 
Beaujon very frequently 



THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 



171 



T is truly pleasing to see how 

We Fudges stand by one another. 
But never fear — I know my chap, 
And he knows me, too — verbum sap. 
My Lord and I are kindred spirits, 
Like in our ways as two young ferrets ; 
Both fashion'd, as that supple race is, 
To twist into all sorts of places ; — 
Creatures lengthy, lean, and hungering, 
Fond of blood and b urr ow-mongerlng. 

As to my Book in 91, 

Call'd " Down with Kings, or Who'd have thought 
it?" 
Bless you, the Book 's long dead and gone, — 

Not even th' Attorney-General bought it. 
And, though some few seditious tricks 
I play'd in 95 and 6, 
As you remind me in your letter, 
His Lordship likes me all the better ; 
We, proselytes, that come with news full, 
Are, as he says, so vastly useful ! 
Reynolds and I— (you know Tom Reynolds- 
Drinks his claret, keeps his chaise — 
I ucky the dog that first unkennels 

Traitors and Luddites now-a-days ; 
Or who can help to bag a few, 

When S — d th wants a death or two ;) 

Reynolds and I, and some few more, 

All men like us of information, 
Friends, whom his Lordship keeps in store, 

As ?i?uZe/-saviours of the nation — ' 
Hfve form'd a Club this season, where 
His Lordship sometimes takes the chair, 
Tn praise of our sublime vocation ; 
And gives us many a bright oration 
Tracing it up to great King Midas, 
Who, though in fable typified as 
A royal Ass, by grace divine 
And right of ears, most asinine, 
Was yet no more, in fact historical, 

Than an exceeding well-bred tyrant; 
And these, his ears, but allegorical, 

Meaning Informers, kept at high rent — 9 
Gemmen, who touch'd the Treasury glisteners, 
Like us, for being trusty listeners ; 
And picking up each tale and fragment, 
For lyyal Midas'a green bag meant. 
"And wherefore," said this best of Peers, 
Should not the It — g — t too have ears, 3 
To reach as far, as long and wide as 
Those of his model, good King Midas ?" 
This speech was thought extremely good, 
And (rare for him) was understood — 



1 Lord C.'s tribwie to the character of his friend, Mr. 
Reynolds, will long Ire remembered with equal credit to both. 

2 This interpretation of the fable of Mirlas's ears seems 
he mosl probable of any, and is thus stated in Hoffman:— Mac 

allcgoria signifieatum, Midam, ut pote tyrannum, subauscul- 
tgtores dimittere solitam, per quos, qusecunque per omnem 
eegionem vel fiorent, vel dicerentur, cognosceret, nimirum 
His iid us aurium vice." 

3 Brossette, in a note on this line of Boileau, 

" Midas, le roi Midas a des oreilles d'anc," 
tell* us, that " M. Perrault le Medeoin voulut faire a notre 
auteur un crime d'etat de re vers, comme d'une maligna al- 
usion mi Roi." I trust, however, that no one will suspect 
he line in the text of any such indecorous allusion. 



Instanr we drank " The R— g— t's Ears," 
With tnree times three illustrious cheers, 

That made the room resound like thunder 
"The R — G — T*s Ears, and may he ne'er 
From foolish shame, like Midas, wear 

Old paltry wigs to keep them under !" ! 
This touch at our old friends, the Whigs, 
Made us as merry all as grigs. 
In short (I'll thank you not to mention 
These things aga. ; n) we get on gaily ; 
And, thanks to pension and Suspension, 

Our little Club increases daily. 
Castles, and Oliver, and such, 
Who don't as yet full salary touch, 
Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy 
Houses and lands, like Tom and I, 
Of course don't rank with us, salvators, 2 
But merely serve the Club as waiters. 
Like Knights, too, we've our collar days 
(For us, I own, an awkward phrase,) 
When, in our new costume adorn'd, — 
The R — g — t's buff-and-blue coat 's tuni'd — 
We have the honour to give dinners 
To the chief rats in upper stations ; 3 

Your W ys, V ns — half-fledged sinners, 

Who shame us by their imitations ; 
Who turn, 'tis true — but what of that? 
Give me the useful preaching Rat ; 
Not things as mute as Punch, when bought, 
Whose wooden heads are all they've brought, 
Who, false enough to shirk their friends, 

But too faint-hearted to betray, 
Are, after all their twists and bends, 

But souls in Limbo, damn'd half way. 
No, no, — we nobler vermin are 
A genus useful as we're rare ; 
'Midst all the things miraculous 

Of which your natural histories brag, 
The rarest must be Rats like us, 
Who let the cat out of the bag. 
Yet still these Tyros in the cause 
Deserve, I own, no small applause ; 
And they're by us received and treated 
With all due honours — only seated 
In the inverse scale of their reward, 
The merely promised next my Lord ; 
Small peiisions then, and so on, down, 

Rat after rat, they graduate 
Through job, red ribbon, and silk gown, 

To Chancellorship and Marquisate. 
This serves to nurse the ratting spirit ; 
The less the bribe the more the merit. 

Our music 's good, you may be sure ; 
My Lord, you know, 's an amateur — 4 



1 It was not under wigs, but tiaras, that King Midas en 
deavoured to conceal these appendages: 

Tempora purpurcis tentat velare tiaris. — Gvid. 

The noble giver of the toast, however, had evidently 
with his usual clearness, confounded King Midas, Mr. Lis- 
tor., and the P e R — g — t together. 

•2 Mr. Fudge and his friends should go by this name — as 
tne man who, some years since, saved the late Right Hon 
George Rose from drowning, was ever after cai.ed Satvator 
Rosa. 

3 This intimacy between the Rats nnd Informers is just aj it 
should be — "vere dulce sodalitium." 

4 His Lordship, during one of the busiest periods of hi* 



172 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Takes every part with perfect ease, 

Though to the Base by nature suited, 
And, form d for all, as best may please, 
For whips and bolts, or chords and keys, 
Turns from his victim to his glees, 

And has them both well executed. 
H t D, who, though no Rat himself, 

Delights in all such liberal arts, 
Drinks largely to the House of Guelph, 

And superintends the Corni parts. 
While C — nn — g, 1 who'd bejirst by choice, 
Consents to take an under voice ; 

And G s, 2 who well that signal knows, 

Watches the Volti Subitos. 3 

In short, as I've already hinted, 

We take, of late, prodigiously ; 
But as our Club is somewhat stinted 

For Gentlemen, like Tom and me, 
We'll take it kind if you'll provide 
A few Squireens* from t'other side ;— 
Some of those loyal, cunning elves 

(We often tell the tale with laughter) 
Who used to hide the pikes themselves, 

Then hang the fools who found them after. 
I doubt not you could find us, too, 
Some Orange Parsons that would do; 
Among the rest, we've heard of one, 
The Reverend — something — Hamilton, 
Who stuff'd a figure of himself 

(Delicious thought !) and had it shot at, 
To bring some Papists to the shelf, 

That could'nt otherwise be got at — 
If he '11 but join the Association, 
We'll vote him in by acclamation. 

And now, my brother, guide, and friend, 
This somewhat tedious scrawl must end. 
I've gone into this long detail, 

Because I saw your nerves were shaken 
With anxious fears lest I should fail 

In this new, loyal, course I've taken. 
But, bless youi heart! you need not doubt— 
We Fudges know what we're about. 
Look round, and say if you can see 
A much more thriving family. 
There 's Jack, the Doctor — night and day 

Hundreds of patients so besiege him, 
You'd swear that all the rich and gay 

Fell sick on purpose to oblige him. 
And while they think, the precious ninnies, 

He's counting o'er their pulse so steady, 

Ministerial career, took lessons three times a-vveek from a 
celebrated music-master, in glee-singing. 

1 This Right Hon. Gentleman ought to give up his pre- 
sent alliance with Lord 0- if upon no oilier principle than 
that which is inculcated in the following arrangement be- 
tween two Ladies of Fashion : 

Says Clarinda, " though tears it may cost, 
It is time we should part, my dear Sue; 

For your character 's totally lost, 
And /have not sufficient for two!" 

2 The rapidity of this Noble Lord's transformation, at 
the same instant, into a Lord of the Bed-chamber and an 
opponent of the Catholic Claims, was truly miraculous. 

3 Tarn instantly — a frequent direction in music books. 
* The Irish diminutive of Squire. 



The rogue but counts how many guineas 
He 's fobb'd, for that day's work, alrea^* 

I'll ne'er forget the old maid's alarm, 
When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he 

Said, as he dropp'd her shrivell'd arm, 

" Damn'd bad this morning— only thirtv !" 

Your dowagers, too, every one, 

So generous are, when they call him in, 
That he might now retire upon 

The rheumatisms of three old women. 
Then, whatsoe'er your ailments are, 

He can so learnedly explain ye 'em— 
Your cold, of course, is a catarrh, 

Your head-ache is a hemi-eranium : — 
His skill, too, in young ladies' lungs, 

The grace with which, most mild of men 
He begs them to put out their tongues, 
Then bids them— put them in again ! 
In short there 's nothing now like Jack ; — 

Take all your doctors, great and small, 
Of present times and ages back, 

Dear Doctor Fudge is worth them all 

So much for physic — then, in law too, 

Counsellor Tim ! to thee we bow ; 
Not one of us gives more eclat to 

The immortal name of Fudge than thou 
Not to expatiate on the art 
With which you play'd the patriot's part. 
Till something good and snug should offer, • 

Like one, who, by the way he acts 
The enlightening part of candle-snuffer, 

The manager's keen eye attracts, 
And is promoted thence by him 
To strut in robes, like thee, my Tim ! 
Wlio shall describe thy powers of face, 
Thy well-fee'd zeal in every case, 
Or wrong or right — but ten times warmer 
(As suits thy calling) in the former — 
Thy glorious, lawyer-like delight 
In puzzling all that 's clear and right, 
Which, though conspicuous in thy youth, 

Improves so with a wig and band on, 
That all thy pride 's to way-lay Truth, 

And leave her not a leg to stand on. — 
Thy patent, prime, morality, — 

Thy cases, cited from the Bible — 
Thy candour, when it falls to thee 

To help in trouncing for a libel : — 
" God knows, I, from my soul, profess 

To hate all bigots and benighters ! 
God knows, I love, to even excess, 
The sacred Freedom of the Press, 

My only aim 's to — crush the writers." 
These are the virtues, Tim, that draw 

The briefs into thy bag so fast ; 
And these, oh, Tim — if Law be Law- 
Will raise thee to the Bench at last. 

I blush to see this letter's length, 
But 't was my wish to prove to thee 

How full of hope, and wealth, and strength 
Are all our precious family. 

And, should affairs go on as pleasant 

As, thank the Fates, they do at present - 



THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 



173 



Should we but still enjoy the sway 

Of S— dm — u and of C gh, 

{ hope, ere long, to see the day 

When England's wisest statesmen, judges, 

Lawyers, peers, will all be — Fudges 1 

Good bye — my paper 's out so nearly, 
I've only room for 

Yours sincerely. 



LETTER VII. 



FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO 



Rkfore we sketch the Present — let us cast 
A few short rapid glances to the Past. 

When he, who had defied all Europe's strength, 
Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length ; — 
When loosed, as if by magic, from a chain 
That seem'd like Fate's, the world was free again, 
And Europe saw rejoicing in the sight, 
The cause of Kings, for once, the cause o c Right; 
Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those 
Who sigh'd for justice — liberty — repose, 
And hoped the fall of one great vulture's nest 
Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest. 
And all was bright with promise; — Kings began 
To own a sympathy with suffering Man, 
And Man was grateful — Patriot* of the South 
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth, 
And heard, like accents thaw'd in Northern air, 
Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there ! 

Who did not hope in that triumphant time, 
When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime, 
Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heaven look'd on, 
Who did not hope the lust of spoil was gone ; — 
That that rapacious spirit, which had play'd 
The game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid, 
And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past, 
Would blush, and deviate into right at last? 
But no — the hearts that nursed a hope so fair 
Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare ; 
Had yet to know, of all earth's ravening things, 
The only quite untameable are K**gs ! 
Scarce had they met when, to its nature true, 
The instinct of their race broke out anew ; 
Promises, treaties, charters, all w T ere vain, 
And "Rapine ! — rapine !" was the cry again. 
How quick they carved their victims, and how well, 
Let Saxony, let injured Genoa tell, — 
Let all the human stock that, day by day, 
Was at the Royal slave-mart truck'd away, — 
The million souls that, in the face of Heaven, 
Were split to fractions, 1 barter'd, sold, or given 
To swell some despot power, too huge before, 
And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more ! 
How safe the faith of K**gs let F***ce decide ; — 
Her charter broken, ere its ink had dried — 



1 "Whilst the Congress was re-constructing Europe — not 
according to rights, natural affiances, language, habits, or 
laws, but by tables of finance, which divided and subdivi- 
ded her population into souls, demi-souls, and even frac- 
tions, according to a scale of the direct duties or taxes 
which could be levied by the acquiring state," etc. — Sketch 
of the Military and Political Power of Russia. — The 
words on the Protocol are ames, demi-ames, etc. 



Her Press enthrall'd — her Reason mock'd again 
With all the monkery it had spurn'd in vain — 
Her crown disgraced by one, who dared to own 
He thank'd not F***ce but E'****dfor his throne— 
Her triumphs cast into the shade by those 
Who had grown old among her bitterest foes, 
And now return'd, beneath her conquerors' shields, 
Unblushing slaves ! to claim her heroes' fields, 
To tread down every trophy of her fame, 
And curse that glory which to them was shame !- 
Let these — let all the damning deeds, that then 
Were dared through Europe, cry aloud to men, 
With voice like that of crashing ice that rings 
Round Alpine huts, the perfidy of K**gB ; 
And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bear 
The shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spare 
The helpless victim for whose blood they lusted, 
Then, and then only, monarchs may be trusted ! 

It could not last — these horrors could not last — 

F***ce would herself have risen, in might, to cast 

The insulters off— and oh ! that then, as now, 

Chain'd to some distant islet's rocky brow, 

N**ol**n ne'er had come to force, to blight, 

Ere half matured, a cause so proudly bright ;— 

To palsy patriot hearts with doubt and shame, 

And write on Freedom's flag a despot's name ; 

To rush into the lists, unask'd, alone, 

And make the stake of all the game of one? 

Then would the world have seen again what powei 

A people can put forth in Freedom's hour ; 

Then would the fire of F***ce once more have blazed , 

For every single sword, reluctant raised 

In the stale cause of an oppressive throne, 

Millions would then have leap'd forth in her own ; 

And never, never had the unholy stain 

Of B***b*n feet disgraced her shores again ' 

But Fate decreed not so — the Imperial Bird, 
That, in his neighbouring cage, unfear'd, unstirr d, 
Had seem'd to sleep with head beneath his wing, 
Yet watch'd the moment for a daring spring ; — 
Well might he watch, when deeds were done that made 
His own transgressions whiten in their shade ; 
Well might he hope a world, thus trampled o'er 
By clumsy tyrants, would be his once more : 
Forth from its cage that eagle burst to light, 
From steeple on to steeple 1 wing'd its flight, 
With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne 
From which a royal craven just had flown ; 
And resting there, as in its aerie, furl'd 
Those wings, whose very rustling shook the wond . 

What was your fury then, ye crown' d array, 

Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering holiday 

Was thus broke up in all its greedy mirth, 

By one bold chieftain's stamp on G*ll*c earth ! 

Fierce was the cry and fulminant the ban, — 

" Assassinate, who will — enchain, who can, 

The vile, the faithless, outlaw'd, low-born man ! 

" Faithless !" — and this from you — from you, forsooih, 

Ye pious K**gs, pure paragons of truth, 

Whose honesty all knew, for all had tried ; 

Whose true Swiss zeal had served on every side , 



1 " L'ai<;le volera de clocher en clocher, jusqu'aux touu 
de Notre-Dame."— N**ol**n's Proclamation on landing 
from Elba. 



174 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Whose fame for breaking faith so long was known, 

Well might ye claim the craft as all your own, 

And lash your lordly tails, and fume to see 

Such low-born apes of royal perfidy '. 

Yes — yes — to you alone did it belong 

To sin for ever, and yet ne'er do wrong— 

The frauds, the lies of lords legitimate 

Are but fine policy, deep strokes of state ; 

But let some upstart dare to soar so high 

In K**gly craft, and " outlaw" is the cry ! 

What, though long years of mutual treachery 

Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves 

With ghosts of treaties, murder'd 'mong yourselves; 

Though each by turns was knave and dupe — what 

then ? 
A Holy League would set all straight again ; 
Like Juno's virtue, which a dip or two 
In some bless'd fountain made as good as new I 1 
Most faithful Russia — faithful to whoe'er 
Could plunder best, and give him amplest share ; 
Who, even when vanquisn'd, sure to gain his ends, 
For want of foes to rob, made free with friends, 2 
And, deepening still by amiable gradations, 
When foes are stript of all, then fleeced relations ! 3 
Most mild and saintly Prussia — steep'd to the ears 
In persecuted Poland's blood and tears, 
And now, with all her harpy wings outspread 
O'er sever'd Saxony's devoted head ! 
Pure Austria too, — whose history nought repeats 
But broken leagues and subsidized defeats ; 
Whose faith, as Prince, extinguish' d Venice shows, 
Whose faith, as man, a widow'd daughter knows ! 
And thou, oh England ! — who, though once as shy 
As cloister'd maids, of shame or perfidy, 

Art now broke in, and, thanks to C gh, 

In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way ! 

Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits 
The escape from E**a frighten'd into fits ; 
Such were the saints who doom'd N**ol**n's life, 
In virtuous frenzy, to the assassin's knife ! 
Disgusting crew ! — who would not gladly fly 
To open, downright, bold-faced tyranny, 
To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie, 
From the false, juggling craft of men like these, 
Their canting crimes and varnish'd villanies ; — 
These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast 
Of faith and honour, when they've stain'd them most: 
From whose affection men should shrink as loth 
As from their hate, for they'll be fleeced by both ; 
Who, even while plundering, forge Religion's name 
To frank their spoil, and, without fear or shame, 
Call down the Holy Trinity 4 to bless 
Partition leagues, and deeds of devilishness ! 



1 Singulis annis in quodam Atticae fonte iota virginitatem 
recuperasse fingitur. 

2 At the Peace of Tilsit, where he abandoned his ally, 
Prussia, to France, and received a portion of her territory." 

3 The seizure of Finland from his relative of Sweden. 

4 The usual preamble of these flagitious compacts. In 
the same spirit, Catherine, after the dreadful massacre of 
Warsaw, ordered a solemn "thanksgiving to God, in all the 
jhurches, for the blessings conferred upon the Poles ;" and 
commanded that each of them should "swear fidelity and 
loyalty to her, and to shed in her defence the last drop of 
their blood, as they should answer for it to God, and his 
terrible judgment, kissing the holy word and cross of their 
Saviour!" 



But hold— -enough — soon would this swell of rage 
O'erflow the boundaries of my scanty page,— 
So, here I pause — farewell — another day 
Return we to those Lords of prayer and prey, 
Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divina 
Deserve a lash ^oh . weightier far than mine . 



LETTER VIII. 



FROM MR. BOB FUDGE, TO RICHARD' 



ESQ 



Dear Dick, while old Donaldson's 1 mending mv 

stays, — 
Which I knew would go smash with me one of these 

days, 
And, at yesterday's dinner, Avhen, full to the throttle. 
We lads had begun ourdessertwith a bottle 
Of neat old Constantia, on my leaning back 
Just to order another, by Jove I went crack ! 
Or, as honest Tom said, in his nautical phrase, 
" D — n my eyes, Bob, in doubling the Cape yuu ve 

missed staysy 2 
So, of course, as no gentleman's seen out without them, 
They're now at the Schneider's 3 — and, while he's 

about them, 
Here goes for a letter, post-haste, neck and crop — 
Let us see — in my last I was — where did I stop ? 
Oh, I. know — at the Boulevards, as motley a road as 

Man ever would wish a day's lounging upon ; 
With its cafes and gardens, hotels and pagodas, 

Its founts, and old Counts sipping beer in the sun . 
With its houses of all architectures you please, 
From the Grecian and Gothic, Dick, down by degrees 
To the pure Hottentot, or the Brighton Chinese ; 
Where, in temples antique, you may breakfast or din- 
ner it, 
Lunch at a mosque, and see Punch from a minaret. 
Then, Dick, the mixture of bonnets and bowers, 
Of foliage and frippery, fiacres and flowers, 
Green-grocers, green-gardens — one hardly knows 

whether 
'Tis country or town, they're so mess'd up together ! 
And there, if one loves the romantic, one sees 
Jew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclin'd under trees ; 
Or Quidnuncs, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber's, 
Enjoying their news and grosedle 4 in those arbours, 
While gaily their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling, 
And founts of red currant-juice 5 round them are purl 

ing. 

Here, Dick, arm m arm, as we chattering stray, 
And receive a few civil "God-dems" by the way.— 
For 'tis odd, these mounseers, — though we've wasted 

our wealth 
And our strength, till we've thrown ourselves into 

a phthisic, 



1 An English tailor at Paris. 

2 A ship is said to miss stays, when she does not obey the 
helm in tacking. 

3 The dandy term for a tailor. 

4 "Lemonade and eau-de-groseille are measured out at 
every corner of every street, from fantastic vessels, jingling 
with bells, to thirsty tradesmen or wearied messengers " — 
See Lady Morgan's lively description of the streets of Paris, 
in her very amusing work upon France, book 6. 

5 These gay, portable fountains, from which the groseille 
water is administered, are among the most characteristic 
ornaments of the streets of Paris. 



THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 



175 



To cram down their throats an old K**g for their 

health, 
As we whip little children to make them take 

physic ; — 
Yet, spite of our good-natur'd money and slaughter, 
They hate us, as Beelzebub hates holy water ! 
Rut who the deuce cares, Dick, as long as they 

nourish us 
Neatly as now, and good cookery nourishes — 
Long as, by bayonets protected, we Natties 
May have our full fling at their salmis and pates ? 
And, truly, I always declared 't would be pity 
To burn to the ground such a choice-feeding city : 
Had Dad buf his way, he 'd have long ago blown 
The whole batch to Old Nick — and the people, I own, 
If for no other cause than their curst monkey looks, 
Well deserve a blow-up — but then, damn it, their 

cooks ! 
As to Marshals, and Statesmen, and all their whole 

lineage, 
For aught that J care, you may knock them to spinage ; 
But then, Dick, their cooks — what a loss to mankind ! 
What a void in the world would their art leave behind! 
Their chronometer spits — their intense salamanders — 
Their ovens — their pots, that can soften old ganders, 
All vanish'd for ever — their miracles o'er, 
And the Marmite Perpetuelle 1 bubbling no more ! 

Forbid it, forbid it, ye Holy Allies, 

Take whatever ye fancy — take statues, take money— 
But leave them, oh leave them their Perigueux pies, 

Their glorious goose-livers, and high pickled tunny! 2 
Though many, I own, are the evils they've brought us, 

Though R**al r y 's here on her very last legs, 
Yet, who can help loving the .and that has taught us 

Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs ? 3 

You see Dick, in spite of their cries of " God-dem," 
" Coquin Anglais," et cset'ra — how generous I am! 
And now (to return, once again, to my " Day," 
Which will take us all night to get through in this way) 
From the Boulevards we saunter thro' many a street, 
Crack jokes on the natives — mine, all very neat — 
Leave the Signs of the Times to political fops, 
And find twice as much fun in the Signs of the Shops; — 
Here, a L***s D*x-h**t — there, a Martinmas goose 
(Much in vogue since your eagles are gone out of use) — 
Henri Quatres in shoals, and of gods a great many, 
But Saints are the most on hard duty of any : — 
St. Tony, who used all temptations to spurn, 
Here hangs o'er a beer-shop, and tempts in his turn ; 
While there St. Venecia 4 sits hemming and frilling her 
Holy mouchoir o'er the door of some milliner ; — 
St. Austin 's the " outward and visible sign 



1 Cette merveilleuse Marmite Perpetuelle, sur le feu de- 
puis pres d'un siccle; qui a donn&le jour :i plus de 300,000 
chapons." — Alman. des Gourmands, Quatrieme Annee, 
p. 152. 

2 Le thon marine, one of the most favourite and indigesti- 
ble hors-tTceuvres. This fish is taken chiefly in the Golfe 
do Lyon. " La tete et le dessous du ventre sont les parties 
le plus reclierchees des gourmets." — Cours Gastronomique, 
p. 252. 

3 Tne exacc number mentioned by M. de la Reyruere — 
M On connoit. en France G85 manieres differentes d'accom- 
moder les oeufs; sans compter celles que nos savans imagi- 
neut chaque jour." 

4 Veronica, the Saint of the Holy Handkerchief, is also, 
under the name of Venisse or Venecia, the tutelary saint of 
milliners. 



Of an inward" cheap dinner and pint of small wine; 
While St. Denis hangs out o'er some hatter of ton, 
And possessing, good bishop, no head of his own, 1 
Takes an interest in Dandies, who 've got — next to 

none. 
Then we stare into shops — read the evening's af 

fiches — 
Or, if some, who 're Lotharios in feeling, should wish 
Just to flirt with a luncheon (a devilish bad trick, 
As it takes off the bloom of one's appetite Dick,) 
To the Passage des — what d'ye call 't — des Panora- 
mas, 2 
We quicken our pace, there heartily cram as 
Seducing young pates, as ever could cozen 
One out of one's appetite, down by the dozen. 
We vary of course — petitspat.es do one day, 
The next we've our lunch with the Gauftrier Ilollan- 

dais, 3 
That popular artist, who brings out, like Sc — tt, 
His delightful productions so quick, hot and hot ; 
Not the worse for the exquisite comment that follows, 
Divine maresquino, which — Lord, how one swallows ! 

Once more, then, we saunter forth after our snack, or 
Subscribe a few francs for the price of a.Jiacre, 
And drive far away to the old Montagnes Russes, 
Where we find a few twirls in the car of much use 
To regenerate the hunger and thirst of us sinners, 
Who 've lapsed into snacks — the perdition of dinners 
And here, Dick — in answer to one of your queries, 
About which we Gourmands, have had much dis- 
cussion — 
I've tried all these mountains, Swiss, French, and 
Ruggieri's, 
And think, for digestion,* there's none like the 
Russian ; 
So equal the motion — so gentle, though fleet — 

It, in short, such a light and salubrious scamper is, 

That take whom you please — take old L****D ****** 

And stuff him — ay, up to the neck — with stew'd 

lampreys, 5 

So wholesome these Mounts, such a solvent I've found 

them, 
That, let me but rattle the Monarch well down them. 
The fiend, Indigestion, would fly far away, 
And the regicide lampreys 6 be foil'd of their prey ! 



1 St. Denis walked three miles after his head was cut off. 
The mot of a woman of wit upon this legend is well known: 
" Je le crois bien; en pareil cas, il n'y a que le premier pas 
qui coute." 

2 Off the Boulevards Italiens. 

3 In the Palais Royal ; successor, I believe, to the Fla- 
mand, so long celebrated for the movlleux of his Gauffres. 

4 Doctor Cotterel recommends, for this purpose, the Reau- 
jon, or French mountains, and calls them " une medecine 
aerienne, couleui de rose;" but I own I prefer the aulhority 
of Mr. Bob, who seems, from the following note found in his 
own hand-writing, to have studied all these mountains very 
carefully: 

Memoranda. — The Swiss little notice deserves, 

While the fall at Ruggieri's is <Jeath to weak nerves ♦ 

And (whate'er Doctor Cotterel may write on the question, 

The turn at the Beaujon 's too sharp for digestion. 

I doubt whether Mr. Bob is quite correct in accenting the 

second syllable of Ruggieri. 

5 A dish so indigestible, that a late novelist, at the end af 
his book, could imagine no more summary mode of gett'rig 
rid of all his heroes and heroines than by a hearty supper ot 
stewed lampreys. 

6 They killed Henry I. of England.— "A food (savs Hum* 



Such, Dick, wre the classical sports that content us, 
T.ll five o'clock brings on that hour so momentous, 
That epoc» but woa ! my lad — here comes the 

Schneider, 
And, curse him, has made the stays three inches 

wider — 
Too wide by an inch and a half— what a Guy ! 
But, no matter — 't will all be set right by-and-by — 
As we've Massinot's 1 eloquent carte to eat still up, 
An inch and a half's but a trifle to fill up. 

So — not to lose time, Dick — here goes for the task ; 
Au revoir, my old boy — of the gods I but ask, 
That my life, like " the Leap of the German," 2 may be, 
" Du lit a la table, de la table au lit !" 

R.F. 



LETTER IX. 

TROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO THE LORD VISCOUNT 
C — ST GH. 

My Lord, the Instructions, brought to-day, 
"I shall in all my best obey." 

Your Lordship talks and writes so sensibly ! 
And — whatsoe'er some wags may say — . 

Oh ! not at all incomprehensibly. 

I feel the inquiries in your letter 

About my health and French most flattering ; 
Thank ye, my French, though somewhat better, 

Is on the whole, but weak and smattering : 
Nothing, of course, that can compare 
With his who made the Congress stare ; 
(A certain Lord we need not name,) 

Who, even in French, would have his trope 
And talk of " batir un systeme 

Sur I'cquilibre de l'Europe !" 
Sweet metaphor ! — and then the epistle 
Which bid the Saxon King go whistle, 
That teYider letter to " Mon Prince," 3 
Which show'd alike thy French and sense ;— 
Oh, no, my Lord, there 's none can do 
Or say un-English things like you ; 
And, if the schemes that fill thy breast 

Could but a vent congenial seek, 
And use the tongue that suits them best, 

What charming Turkish would'st thou speak ! 
But as for me, a Frenchless grub, 

At Congress never born to stammer, 
Nor learn, like thee, my Lord, to snub 

Fallen monarchs, out of Chambaud's grammar- 
Bless you, you do not, cannot know 
How far a little French will go ; 
For all one's stock, one need but draw 

On some half dozen words like these — 
Comme ca- -par-la — la-bas — all! ah! 

They'll take you all through France with ease. 



Your Lordship's praises of the scraps 

I sent you from my journal lately, 
(Enveloping a few laced caps 

For Lady C.) delight me greatly. 
Her flattering speech—" what pretty things 

One finds in Mr. Fudge's pages !' 
Is praise which (as some poet sings) 

Would pay one for the toil of ages 

Thus flatter'd, I presume to send 
A few more extracts by a friend ; 
And I should hope they'll be no less 
Approved of than my last MS — 
The former ones, I fear, were creas'd, 

As Biddy round the caps would pin them . 
But these will come to hand, at least 

Unrumpled, for — there's nothing in them. 



gravely,) which always agreed better with his palate than 
his constitution." % 

1 A famous Restaurateur — now Dupont. 

2 An old French saying: — " Faire le saut de PAllemand, 
du lit a la tabic, et do la table au lit." 

3 The celebrated letter to Prince Hardenburgh (written, 
however, I believe, originally in English, ) in which his Lord- 
ship, professing to sec "no moral or political objection" to 
the dismemberment of Saxony, denounced the unfortunate 
King, as " not only the most devoted, but the most favoured 
of Buonaparte's vassals." 



Extracts from Mr. Fudge's Journal, addressed to 
Lord C. 

Aug. 10 
Went to the Mad-house — saw the man 1 

Who thinks, poor wretch, that, while the Fiend 
Of Discord here full riot ran, 

He like the rest was guillotined : — 
But that when, under Boney's reign 

(A more discreet, though quite as strong one) 
The heads were all restored again, 

He, in the scramble, got a wrong one. 
Accordingly, he still cries out 

This strange head fits him most unpleasantly ; 
And always runs, poor devil, about, 

Inquiring for his own incessantly ! 

While to his case a tear I dropp'd, 

And saunter'd home, thought I — ye gods ! 
How many heads might thus be swopp'd, 

And, after all, not make much odds ! 
For instance, there 's V — s — tt — t's head — 
("Tam carum''' 2 it may well be said) 
If by some curious chance it came 

To settle on Bill Soames's 3 shoulders, 
The effect would turn out much the same 

On all respectable cash-holders : 
Except that while in its new socket, 

The head was planning schemes to win 
A zigzag way into one's pocket, 

The hands would plunge directly in. 

Good Viscount S — dm — h, too, instead 
Of his own grave respected head, 
Might wear (for ought I see that bars) 

Old Lady Wilhelmina Frump's — 
So, while the hand sign'd Circulars, 

The head might lisp out "What is trumps?"— 
The R — g — t's brains could we transfer 
To some robust man-milliner, 
The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon 
Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on ; 
And, vice versa, take the pains 
To give the P — ce the shopman's brains, 



1 This extraordinary madman is, I believe, in the Bicetre. 
He imagines, exactly as Mr. Fudge states it, that, when ihe 
heads of those who had been guillotined were restored, he 
by mistake got some other person's instead of his own 

2 Tam cari capitis. — Horat. 

3 A celebrated pickpocket 



THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 



i77 



One only change from thence would flow — 
Ribbons would not be wasted so ! 

Twas thus I ponder'd on, my Lord ; 

And, even at night, when laid in bed, 
I found myself, before I snored, 

Thus chopping, swopping head for head. 
At length I thought, fantastic elf! 
How such a change would suit myself. 
'Twixt sleep and waking, one by one, 

With various pericraniums saddled, 
At last I tried your Lordship's on, 

And then I grew completely addled — 
Forgot all other heads, od rot 'em ! 
And slept, and dreamt that I was — Bottom. 

Aug. 21. 

Walk'd out with daughter Bid — was show 
The House of Commons and the Throne, 
Whose velvet cushion 's just the same 1 
N — pol — n sat on — what a shame ! 
Oh, can we wonder, best of speechers 

When L s seated thus we see, 

That France's "fundamental features" 

Are much the same they used to be ! 
However, — God preserve the throne, 

And cushion too — and keep them free 
From accidents which have been known 

To happen even to Royalty ! 2 

Aug. 28. 
Read, at a stall (for oft one pops 
On something at these stalls and shops, 
That does to quote, and gives one's book 
A classical and knowing look. — 
Indeed I've found, in Latin, lately, 
A course of stalls improves me greatly.) 
'T was thus I read, that, in the East, 

A monarch's fat 's a serious matter; 
And once in every year, at least, 

He's weigh'd — to see if he gets fatter: 3 
Then, if a pound or two he be 
Increased, there 's quite a jubilee ! 4 

Suppose, my Lord, — and far from me 
To treat such things with levity — 
But just suppose the R — g — t's weight 
Were made thus an affair of state ; 
And, every sessions, at the close, — ■ 

'Stead of a speech, which, all can see, is 



1 The only change, if I recollect right, is the substitution 
of lilies for bees. This war upon the t|ees is, of course, uni- 
versal ; "exitium misere apibus," like the angry nymphs in 
Virgil : — but may not new swarms arise out of the victims 
of Legitimacy yet? 

2 I am afraid that Mr. Fudge alludes here to a very awk- 
ward accident, which is well known to have happened to 
poor L — s le D — s — e, some years since, at one of the 
R — g — t's Fetes. He was sitting next our gracious Queen 
at the time. 

3 " The third day of the Feast the King causeth himself 
to be weighed with great care." — F. Bernier's Voyage to 
Surat, etc. 

4 " I remember," says Bernier, " that all the Omrahs ex- 
pressed great joy that the king weighed two pounds more 
now than the year preceding." — Another author tells us that 
" Fatness, as well as a very large head, is considered, 
throughout India, as one of the most precious gifts of Hea- 
ven. An enormous skull is absolutely revered, and the hap- 
py owner is looked up to as a superior being. To a Prince 
ajoulter head is invaluable." — Oriental Meld Sports. 



Heavy and dull enough, God knows — 

We were to try how heavy he is. 
Much would it glad all hearts to hear 

That, while the Nation's Revenue 
Loses so many pounds a-year, 

The P e, God bless him ! gains a few 

With bales of muslins, chintzes, spices, 

I see the Easterns weigh their kings ; — 
But, for the R — g — T, my advice is, 

We should throw in much heavier things : 
For instance 's quarto volumes, 

Which, though not spices, serve to wrap them } 
Dominie St — dd — t's daily columns, 

" Prodigious !" — in, of course, we'd clap them— 

Letters, that C — rtw t's pen indites, 

| In which, with logical confusion, 
The Major like a Minor writes, 

And never comes to a conclusion: — 
Lord S — M — rs' pamphlet — or his head — 
(Ah, that were worth its weight in lead !) 
Along with which we in may whip, sly, 
The Speeches of Sir John C — x H — pp— SLY • 
That Baronet of many words, 
Who loves so, in the house of Lords, 
To whisper Bishops — and so nigh 

Unto their wigs in whispering goes, 
That you may always know him by 

A patch of powder on his nose ! — 
If this won't do, we in must cram 
The "Reasons" of Lord B — ck — gh — M: 
(A book his Lordship means to write, 

Entitled "Reasons for my Ratting:") 
Or, should these prove too small and light, 

His 's a host — we'll bundle that in ! 

And, still should all these masses fail 
To stir the R — g — t's ponderous scale, 
Why then, my Lord, in Heaven's name,. 

Pitch in, without reserve or stint, 
The whole of R — gl — y's beauteous Dame— 

If that won't raise him, devil 's in't ! 

Aug. 31 
Consulted Murphy's Tacitus 

About those famous spies at Rome, 1 
Whom certain Whigs — to make a fuss — 
Describe as much resembling us, 2 

Informing gentlemen, at home. 
But, bless the fools, they can't be serious, 
To say Lord S — dm — th's like Tiberius • 
What ! he, the Peer, that injures no man, 
Like that severe blood-thirsty Roman ! 
'T is true, the Tyrant lent an ear to 
All sorts of spies — so doth the Peer, too. 
'T is true, my Lord's Elect tell fibs, 
And deal in perjury — ditto Tib's. 



1 The name of the first worthy who set up the tracie of 
informer at Rome, (to whom our Olivers and Castlesea 
ought to erect a statue) was Romanus Hispo ; — " qui for- 
mam vitse iniit, quam postea celebrem miseriae temporum et 
audacia? hominum fecerunt." — Tacit. Jinnal. 1. 74. 

2 They certainly possessed the same art of instigating 
their victims, which the Report of the Secret Committee at- 
tributes to Lord Sidmouth's agents : — " socius (says Tacitus 
of one of them) libidinum et necessitatum, quo pUiribtk. 
indiciis aUgare^' 7 



178 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



T is true the Tyrant screen'd and hid 
His rogues from justice' — ditto Sid. 
'T is true, the Peer is grave and glib 
At moral speeches — ditto Ti b. 2 
'Tis true, the feats the tyrant did 
Were in his dotage — ditto Sid. 

So far, I own, the parallel 

'Twixt Tib. and Sid. goes vastly well; 

But there are points in Tib. that strike 

My humble mind as much more like 

Yourself, my dearest Lord, or him 

Of the India Board — that soul of whim! 

Like him, Tiberius loved his joke, 3 

On matters too where few can bear one; 
E. g. a man, cut up, or broke 

Upon the wheel — a devilish fair one ! 
Your common fractures, wounds, and fits, 
Are nothing to such wholesale wits * 
But, let the sufferer gasp for life, 

The joke is then worth any money ; 
And, if he writhe beneath a knife, — 

Oh dear, that 's something quite too funny. 
Tn this respect, my Lord, you see 
The Roman wag and ours agree : 
Now, as to your resemblance — mum — 
This parallel we need not follow ; 4 
Though 't is, in Ireland, said by some 

Your Lordship beats Tiberius hollow ; 
Whips, chains, — but these are things too serious 

For me to mention or discuss ; 
Whene'er your Lordship acts Tiberius, 

Phil. Fudge's part is Tacitus! 

Sept. 2. 
Was thinking, had Lord S— dm— th got 
Up any decent kind of plot 
Against the winter-time — if not, 
Alas, alas, our ruin 's fated ; 
All done up, and spiflicated! 
Ministers and all their vassals, 
Down from C — tl — gh to Castles,— 
Unless we can kick up a riot, 
Ne'er can hope for peace or quiet ! 

What's to be done? — Spa-Fields was clever; 

But even that brought gibes and mockings 
Upon our heads — so, mem. — must never 

Keep ammunition in old stockings , 
For fear some wag should, in his curst head, 
Take it to say our force was worsted. 
Mem too — when Sid. an army raises, 
It must not be "incog." like Bayes's; 



1 " Neque tamen id Sereno noxae fuit, quern odium pub- 
licum tutiorem faciebat. Nam ut quis districtior accusator 
velut sacrosanctus erat." — Jlnnal. lib. 4. 36. — Or, as it is 
translated by Mr. Fudge's friend, Murphy:— "This daring 
accuser had the curses of the people, and the protection of 
the Emperor. Informers, in proportion as they rose in 
guilt, became sacred characters." 

2 Murphy even confers upon one of his speeches the epi- 
thet "constitutional." Mr. Fudge might have added to his 
parallel, that Tiberius was a good private character: — 
^egregium vita famique quoad privates," 

3 "Ludibna seriis permiscere solitus." 

4 There is one point of resemblance between Tiberius and 
jLord C. which Mr. Fudge might have mentioned — "sus- 
uensa semper et obscura verba.* 



Nor must the general be a hobbling 
Professor of the art of Cobbling ; 
Lest men, who perpetrate such puns, 

Should say, with Jacobitic grin, 
He felt, from soleing Wellington's, 1 

A Wellington's great soul within ! 
Nor must an old Apothecary 

Go take the Tower, for lack of pence, 
With (what these wags would call, so merry; 

Physical force and phial-ence ! 
No — no — our Plot, my Lord, must be 
Next time contrived more skilfully. 
John Bull, I grieve to say, is growing 
So troublesomely sharp and knowing, 
So wise — in short, so Jacobin — 
'Tis monstrous hard to take him in. 

Sept. 6 
Heard of the fate of our ambassador 

In China, and was sorely nettled ; 
But think, my Lord, we should not pass it o'er 

Till all this matter 's fairly settled ; 
And here 's the mode occurs to me : 
As none of our nobility 
(Though for their own most gracious King 
They would kiss hands, or — any thing) 
Can be persuaded to go through 
This farce-like trick of the Ko-tou ; 
And as these Mandarins won't bend, 

Without some mumming exhibition, 
Suppose, my Lord, you were to send 

Grimaldi to them on a mission : 
As Legate, Joe could play his part, 
And if, in diplomatic art, 
The "volto sciolto" 2 's meritorious, 
Let Joe but grin, he has it, glorious ! 

A title for him 's easily made ; 

And, by the by, one Christmas time, 
If I remember right, he play'd 

Lord Morley in some pantomime ; — s 
As Earl of M — rl — Y, then, gazette him, 
If t'other Earl of M— rl— Y '11 let him. 
(And why should not the world be blest 
With two such stars, for East and West ?) 
Then, when before the Yellow Screen 

He 's brought — and, sure, the very essence 
Of etiquette would be that scene 

Of Joe in the Celestial Presence ! — 
He thus should say :— " Duke Ho and Soo, 
I'll play what tricks you please for you, 
If you'll, in turn, but do for me 
A few small tricks you now shall see. 
If 1 consult your Emperor's liking, 
At least you'll do the same for my King." 
He then should give them nine such grins 
As would astound even Mandarins ; 



1 Short boots, so called. 

2 The open countenance, recommended by Lord Ches- 
terfield. 

3 Mr. Fudge is a little mistaken here. It was not Gri- 
maldi, but some very inferior performer, who played this 
part of " Lord Morley" in the pantomime, — so much to tho 
horror of the distinguished Earl of that name. The expos- 
tulatory letters of the Noble Earl to Mr. H-rr-is, upon this 
vulgar profanation of his spic-and-span-new title, will, I 
trust, some time or other, be given to the worW. 



^=A 



THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 



179 



And throw such somersets before 

The picture of King George (God bless him !) 
As, should Duke Ho but try them o'er, 

Would, by Confucius, much distress him! 

1 start this merely as a hint, 
But think you'll rind some wisdom in 't ; 
And, should you follow up rlie job, 
My son, ray Lord (you know poor Bob,) 
Would in the suite be glad to go, 
And help his Excellency Joe ; — 
At least, like noble Amu — rst's son, 
The lad will do lo practise on. 1 



LETTER X. 

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY . 

Wki.l, it is n't the King, after all, my dear creature ! 
But don't you go laugh, now — there's nothing to 

quiz in 't — 
For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature, 
He might be a King, Doll, though, hang him, he 

is n't. 
At first I felt hurt, for I wish'd it, I own, 
If for no other cause than to vex Miss M.vi.oxe, — 
(The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who 's 

here, 
Showing off with such airs and a real Cashmere, 2 
While mine's but a paltry old rabbit-skin, dear !) 
But says Pa, after deeply considering the thing, 
M I am just as well pleased it should not be the King ; 
As I think for my Biddy, so gentiHe and Julie, 

Whose charms may their price in an honest way 

fetch, 
That a Brandenburg — (what is a Brandenburg, 

Dolly !)— 
Would be, after all, no such very great catch. 
If the R — g — T, indeed — " added he, looking sly — 
(You remember that comical squint of his eye) 
But I stopp'd him — " La, Pa, how can you say so, 
When the R — g — T loves none but old women you 

know !" 
Which is fact, my dear Dolly — we, girls of eighteen, 
And so slim — Lord, he'd think us not lit to be seen ; 
And would like us much better as old — ay, as old 
As that Countess of Desmond, of whom I've been told 
That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten, 
And was kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then ! 
What a frisky old girl ! but — to come to my lover, 

Who, though not a king, is a hero I'll swear, — 
You shall hear all that 's happen'd just briefly run 

over, 
Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through 

the air! 

Let me see — 't was on Saturday — yes, Dolly, yes — 
^rom that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss ; 
When we both rattlea oil" in that dear little carriage, 
Whose journey, Bob says, is so like love and marriage, 



1 See Mr. Ellis's account of the Embassy. 

2 See Lady Morgan's "Franco" for Uu> anecdote, told 
hei by Madame do Genlis, of the young gentleman whose 
lovo was cured by finding that his mistress wore a shaicl 
44 neau de lupin." 



" Beginning gay, desperate, dashing down-hilly; 

And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly !"' 

Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through, 

And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you, 

With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet, 

Set out with Papa, to see L**** D****** 

Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys, 

Who get up a small conceit of shrill \'iec le 

And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is, 

Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses! 

The gardens seem'd full — so, of course, we walk'd 

o'er 'em, 
'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum, 
And Daphnes, and vases, and many a statue 
There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you ! 
The fonds, too, we view'd — stood awhile on the brink 
To contemplate the play of those pretty gold 

fishes — 
u Live Bullion" says merciless Bob, "which I think, 
Would, if coin'd, with a little mint sauce, be dcli- 

cious !" 

But what, Dolly, what is the gay orange-grove, 

Or gold fishes, to her that 's in search of her lo\e ? 

In vain did 1 wildly explore every chair 

Where a thing like a man was — no lover sat there ! 

In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly east 

At the whiskers, mustaehios, and wigs that went past, 

To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl, 

But a glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl, 

As the lock that, Pa says,- is to Mussu linen given, 

For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!" 

Alas, there went by me lull many a quiz, 

And mustaehios in plenty, but nothing like his ! 

Disappointed, 1 found my self sighing out "weU-a-day, 

Thought of the words of T— «M 31 — re's Irish melody, 

Something about the ''green spot of delight," 3 

(Which you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us 
one day :) 
Ah, Dolly ! my M spot" was that Saturday night. 

And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sun 
day! 

We dined at a tavern — La, what do I say J 

If Bob was to know ! — a Restaurateur's, dear; 
Where your properest ladies go dine every day, 

And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like 
beer. 
Fine Bob (for he 's really grown super-tine) 

Condescended, for once, to make one of the party ; 
Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine, 

And, in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty 



1 The cars, on the return, are tlrayyed up slowly by a 
chain. 

2 For this scrap of knowledge " Pa" was, I suspect, in- 
debted to anoteuuonVolney's Ruins; a hook which usually 
forms part of a Jacobin's library, ami with which .Mr. 
Fudge must have been well acquainted at the time when lie 

wrote Ins " Down with Kings," etc. The note in Volney 
is as follows: — " It is by this tuft of hair (on the crown of 
the head,) worn by the majority of Mussulmans, that tlw 
Angel of I he Tomb is to lake the elect and carry them Ui 
Paradise." 

3 The young lady, whose memory is not very torroot 
must allude, I think, to the following lines : 

Oh ! that fairy form is ne'er forgot, 
Which Fust Love traced ; 

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
On Memory's waste ' 



ISO 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Indeed, Doll, I know not how 't is, but in grief, 
f have always found eating a wondrous relief; 
And Rob, who 'a in love, said he felt the same quite — 
" My sighs," said he " ceased with the first glass I 
drank you ; 
The lamb made me tranquil, the puffs made me light, 
And now that 's all o'er — why, I'm — pretty well, 
thank you !" 

To my great annoyance, we sat rather late ; 
For Bobby and Pa had a furious debute 
About singing and cookery, — Bobby, of course, 
Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force ; 
And Pa saying, " God only knows which is worst, 

The French singers or cooks, but I wish us well 
over it — 
What with old Lais and Very, I'm curst 

If my head or my stomach will ever recover it !" 
'T was dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll, 

And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis, 
When sudden it struck me — last hope of my soul — 

That some angel might take the dear man to Tor- 
toni's I 1 
We enter' d — and scarcely had Bob, with an air, 

For a grappe a la jardiniere call'd to the waiters, 
When, oh ! Doll, I saw him — my hero was there 

(For I knew his white small-clothes and brown 
leather gaiters,) 
A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him, 2 
And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him! 
Oh Dolly, these heroes — what creatures they are ! 

In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter ; 
As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car 

As when safe at Tortoni's, o'er iced currant-water! 
He join'd us — imagine, dear creature my ecstasy — 
Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see ! 
Bob wish'd to treat him with punch a la glace, 
But the sweet fellow swore that my beaule, my grace, 
And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'd) 
Were, to him, "on de top of all ponch in de vorld." — 
How pretty ! — though oft (as, of course, it must be) 
Both his French and his English are Greek, Doll, to 

me. 
But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did ; 
And, happier still, when 't was fix'd, ere we parted, 
That, if the next day should be pastoral weather, 
We all would set off in French buggies, together, 
To see Montmorency — that place which, you know, 
Is so famous for cherries and Jean Jacques Rousseau. 
His card then he gave us — the name, rather creased — 
But 't was Calicot — something — a colonel, at least ! 
After which — sure there never was hero so civil — he 
Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli, 
Where his lust words, as, at parting, he threw 
A soft look o'er his shoulders, wertf— " how do you 
do !" 3 

But, Lord, — there 's Papa for the post — I'm so vex'd — 
Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next. 
That dear Sunday night ! — I was charmingly dress'd, 
And — so providential — was looking my best ; 



1 A fashionable cafe glacier on the Italian Boulevards. 

2 " You eat your ice at Tortoni's," says Mr. Scott, " un- 
<\ir a Grecian group." 

1 Not an unusual mistake with foreigners. 



Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce — and m 3 

frills, 
You've no notion how rich — (though Pa has by the 

bills)— 
And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rathei 

near, 
Colonel Calicot eyeing the cambric, my dear. 
Then the flowers in my bonnet — but, la, it 's in vain — 
So, good bye, my sweet Doll — I shall soon write a mi n> 

B. F. 
Nota bona — our love to all neighbours about — 
Your papa in particular — how is his gout ? 

P. S. — I've just open'd my letter to say, 
In your next you must tell me (now do, Dolly, pray 
For I hate to ask Bob, he 's so ready to quiz) 
What sort of a thing, dear, a Brandenburgk is. 



LETTER XI. 

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO . 

Yes — 't was a cause, as noble and as great 

As ever hero died to vindicate — 

A nation's right to speak a nation's voice, 

And own no power but of the nation's choice ! 

Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now 

Hung trembling on N*p*l**n's single brow , 

Such the sublime arbitrement, that pour'd, 

In patriot eyes, a light around his sword, 

A glory then, which never, since the day 

Of his young victories, had illum'd its way ! 

Oh 't was not then the time for tame debates, 
Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates ; 
When he who fled before your chieftain's vyc, 
As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly ! ' 
Denounced against the land that spurn'd his cliain, 
Myriads of swords to bind it fast again — 
Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track 
Through your best blood his path of vengeance back; 
When Europe's kings, that never yet combined 
But (like those upper stars, that, when conjoin'd, 
Shed war and pestilence) to scourge mankind, 
Gather'd around, with hosts from every shore, 
Hating N*p'l**n much, but freedom more, 
And, in that coming strife, appall'd to see 
The world yet left one chance for liberty ! — 
No, "t was not then the time to weave a net 
Of bondage round your chief; to curb and fret 
Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight, 
When every hope was in his speed and might — 
To waste the hour of action in dispute, 
And coolly plan how Freedom's boughs should sho&i 
When your invader's axe was at the root ! 
No, sacred Liberty ! that God, who throws 
Thy light around, like his own sunshine, knows 
How well I love thee, and how deeply hate 
All tyrants, upstart and legitimate — 
Yet in that hour, were F***ce my native land, 
I would have follow'd, with quick heart and hand, 



1 See .<Elian, lib. 5. cap. 29 — who tells us that these geese, 
from a consciousness of their own loquacity, always crosa 
Mount Taurus with stones in their bills, to prevent any un- 
lucky cackle from betraying them to the eagles — Six7T£tovt»i 

O-lCOTTuOVTJf. 



THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 



\S] 



NP***L**ON, Nero — ay, no matter whom — 
To snatch my country from that damning doom, 
That deadliest curse that on the conquered waits- 
A conqueror's satrap, throned within her gates ! 

True, he was false — despotic — all you please — 
Had trampled down man's holiest liberties — 
Had, by a genius form'd for nobler things 
Than lie within the grasp of vulgar kings, 
But raised the hopes of men — as eaglets rly 
With tortoises aloft into the sky — 
To dash them down again more shatteringly ! 
All this I own— but still 1 * * * 



LETTER XII. 

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY . 

At last, Dolly, — thanks to a potent emetic 
Which Bobby and Pa, with grimace sympathetic, 
Have swallowed this morning, to balance the bliss 
Of an eel matelote and a bisque d'ecrevisses — 
I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down 
To describe you our heavenly trip out of town. 
How agog you must be for this letter, my dear ! 
Lad)' Jane, in the novel, less languished to hear 
If that elegant cornet she met at Lord Neville's 
Was actually dying with love or — blue devils. 
But love, Dolly, love is the theme / pursue ; 
With blue devils, thank heaven, I've nothing to do — 
Excep:, indeed, dear Colonel Calicot spies 
Any imps of that colour in certain blue eyes, 
Which he stares at till 7, Doll, at his do the same ; 
Then he simpers — I blush — and would often exclaim, 
If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, Sir, for 
shame !" 

Well, the morning was lovely — the trees in full dress 
For the happy occasion — the sunshine express — 
Had we order'd it dear, of the best poet going, 
It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing. 
Though late when we started, the scent of. the air 
Was like Gattie's rose-water — and bright, here and 

there, 
On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet, 
Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabbinet ! 
And the birds seem'd to warble as blest, on the boughs, 
As if each a plumed Calicot had for her spouse, 
And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows, 
And — in short, need I tell you, wherever one goes 
With the creature one loves, 'tis all couleur de rose; 
And ah, I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see 
A day such as that at divine Montmorency ! 

There was but one drawback — at first when we started, 
The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted ; 
How cruel — young hearts of such moments to rob ! 
He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with Bob ; 
And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know 
That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so. 

1 Somebody (Fontene)le, I believe,) lias said, that if he 
had his hand full 'if truths, he would open but one finger at 
a time; and I find it necessary to use the same sort of 
reserve with respect to Mr. Phelim Connor's very plain- 
spoken letters. The remainder of this Epistle is so full of 
unsafe matter-of-fact, that it must, for the present at least, 
be withheld from the public. 



For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of Bonfv's — 
Served with him, of course — nay, I'm sure they were 

cronies 
So martial his features! dear Doll, you can trace 
Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face 
As you do on that pillar of glory and brass' 
Which the poor Due de B ri must hate so to pass 
It appears, too, he made — as most foreigners do — 
About English affairs an odd blunder or two. 
For example — misled by the names, I dare say — 

He confounded Jack Castles with LordC gh 

And — such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on — 
Fancied the present Lord C — md — n the clever one ! 

But politics ne*er were the sweet fellow's trade ; 
'T was for war and the ladies my Colonel was made. 
And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd 
Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd : 
And how perfectly well he appear'd, Doll, to know 
All the life and adventures of Jean Jacques Rous- 
seau ! — 
" 'T was there," said he — not that his words I can 

state — 
'T was a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate ; — 
But "there," said he (pointing where, small and re- 
mote, 
The dear Hermitage rose,) "there his Julie he 

wrote, 
Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure • 
Then sanded it over with silver and azure, 
And — oh, what will genius and fancy not do ? — 
Tied the leaves up together with nomparieUe blue !"* 
What a trait of Rousseau ! what a crowd of emotions 
From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here ! 
Alas, that a man of such exquisite 3 notions 

Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my 
dear! 

" 'Twas here, too, perhaps," Colonel Calicot said- • 
As down the smaU garden he pensively led — 
(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wri nkle 
With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle) 4 
" 'T was here he received from the fair D'Epinay, 
(Who call'd him so sweetly her Bear, b every day,) 
That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form 
A waistcoat to keep the enthusiast warm !" 6 

Such, DoLL,were the sweet recollections we ponder' d, 
As, full of romance, through that valley wewander'd. 



1 The column in the Place Vendome. 

2 " Einployant pour cela la plus beau papiei dore, sechant 
l'ecriture avec de la poudre d'azur et d'argent, et cousant 
mes cahiers avec de la nompareille bleue." — Les Confes- 
sions, Pari 2. liv. .). 

3 This word, " exquisite," is evidently a favourite of Miss 
Fudge's : and I understand she was not a little angry when 
her brother Bob committed a pun on the last two syllables 
of it in the following couplet: — 

" I'd fain praise your poem -but tell me, how is it, 
When /cry out " Exquisite," Echo cries " ijuiz it!" 

4 The flower which Rousseau brought into such fashion 
among the Parisians, by exclaiming one day, " Ah, voila de 
la pervenche!" 

5 " Mon ours, voila votre asyle- — et vous, nion ours ne 
viendrezvous pas aussi?" etc. etc. 

6 "Un jour, qu'il gelait tree- fort, en ouvrant un parju-jt 
qu'elle m'envoyait, je trouvai un petit jupon de flanelle 
d'Angleterre, qu'elle me marquait avoir parte, et dont elle 
voulait que je me fisse faire un gilet. Ce soin, pius qu'ami- 
cal, me parut si tendre, comme si elle se tut depouille pour 
me vetir, que, dans nion emotion, je baisai vingt fois, co 
pleurant, le billet et le jupon." 



182 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is !) 
Led us to talk about other commodities, 
Cambric, and silk, and I ne'er shall forget, 
For the sun was then hastening in pomp to its set, 
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down, 
When he ask'd me, with eagerness, — who made my 

gown ? 
The question confused me — for, Doll, you must 

know, 
And I ought to have told my best friend long ago, 
That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ 1 
That enchanting couturiere, Madame Le Roi, 
But am forc'd, dear, to have VicTorine, who — deuce 

take her! — 
It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker — 
I mean of his party — and, though much the smartest, 
Le Roi is condemned as a rank B*n*pa*t*st. 2 

Think, Doll, how confounded I look'd — so well 

knowing 
The Colonel's opinions — my cheeks were quite 

glowing ; 
I stammer'd out something — nay, even half named 
The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaimed, 
" Yes, yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen 

It was made by that B**rb*n**t b h, Victorine !" 

What a word for a hei-m . but heroes will err, 

And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things just as they 

were. 
Besides, though the word on good manners intrench, 
I assure you 'tis not half so shocking in French. 

But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd 

away, 
And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day, 
The thoughts that arise when such dear fellows woo 

us, — 
The nothings that then, love, are every thing to us — 
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs, 
And what Bob calls the " Twooenny-Post of the 

Eyes" — 
Ah Doll, though I know you 've a heart, 'tis in vain 
To a heart so unpractised these things to explain. 
They can only be felt in their fulness divine 
By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline, 
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine ! 

But here I must finish— for Bob, my dear Dolly, 
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy, 
Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflexions ; 
And full of all yesterday's rich recollections, 
Is just setting off for Montmartre — "for there is," 
Said he, looking solemn, " the tomb of the Verys ! 3 
Long, long have I wish'd, as a votary true, 

O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans ; 
And to-day — as my stomach is not in good cue 

For the fiesh of the Verys — I'll visit their hones!" 



1 Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be 
perceived in the rhymes which she always selects for " Le 
Roi." 

2 Le Roi, who was the Couturiere of the Empress Maria 
Lc'uisa, is at present, of course, out of fashion, and is suc- 
ceeded in her station by the Royalist mantua-maker, Victo- 
Hne. 

3 It is the brother of the present excellent Restaurateur 
who lies entombed so maznifiren ly in the Cimetiere Mont- 
martre. The inscription on the column at the head of the 

ornb concludes with the following words — " Toute sa vie 
'ut consacree aux arts utiles." 



He insists upon my going with him — how teazjng ' 
This letter, however, dear Dolly, shall lie 

Unseal'd in my drawer, that, if any thing pleasing 
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you — Good b 

B. F 

Four o'clock. 
Oh Dolly, dear Dolly, I'm ruin'd for ever — • 
I ne'er shall be happy again, Dolly, never! 
To think of the wretch — what a victim was I ! 
'Tis too much to endure — I shall die, I shall di 
My brain 's in a fever — my pulses beat quick — 
I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick ! 
Oh what do you think ? after all my romancing, 
My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing, 
This Colonel — I scarce can commit it to paper — 
This Colonel *s no more than a vile linen-draper ! ! 
'Tis true as I live — I had coax'd brother Bob so 
(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so,) 
For some little gift on my birth-day — September 
The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember- 
That Bob to a shop kindly order'd the coach 

(Ah, little- thought 1 who the shopman would 

prove,) 
To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche y 
Which, in happier hours, I have sigh'd for, my 

love — 
(The most beautiful things — two Napoleons the 

price — 
And one's name in the corner embroider'd so nice !) 
Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop, 
But — ye gods, what a phantom ! — I thougnt I should 

drop — 
There he stood, my dear Dolly — no room for a 

doubt — 
There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him 

stand, 
With a piece of French cambric before him roll'd 

out, 
And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand. 
Oh — Papa, all along knew the secret, 'tis clear — 
'T was a shopman he meant by a " Brandenburgh, 

dear! 
The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King, 

And, when that too delightful illusion was past, 
As a hero had worsliipp'd — vile treacherous thing—- 

To turn out but a low linen-draper at last ! 
My head swam around — the wretch smil'd, I be- 
lieve, 
But his smiling, alas ! could no longer deceive — 
I fell back on Bob — my whole heart seem'd to 

wither — 
And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither ! 
I only remember that Bob, as I caught him, 

With cruel facetiousness said — " Curse the Kiddy 
A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him, 
But now I find out he 's a Counter one, Biddy !'' 

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known 
To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss Malone ! 
What a story 't will be at Shandangan for ever ! 
What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the 

men ! 
If will spread through the country — and never, oh 

never 
Can Biddy be seen at Kilrandy again ! 



THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. 



183 



Farewell — I shall do something desperate, I fear — 
Arid, ah ! if my fate ever reaches your ear, 
One tear of compassion my Doll will not grudge 
To her poor — broken-hearted — young friend, 

Biddy Fudge. 



Nota Bene. — I'm sure you will hear with delight, 
That we're going, all three, to see Brunet to-night 
A laugh will revive me — and kind Mr. Cox 
(Do you know him f) has got us the Governor's box . 



NOTES. 



Oh this learning, what a thing it is. Shakspeare. 



Page 166, line 75. 
So Ferdinand embroiders gaily. 
It would be an edifying thing to write a history of 
the private amusements of sovereigns, tracing them 
down from the fly-sticking of Domitian, the mole- 
catching of Artabanus, the hog-mimicing of Parme- 
nides, the horse-currying of Aretas, to the petticoat- 
embroidering of Ferdinand, and the patience-playing 
of the P e R 1 ! 

Page 167, line 60. 
Your curst tea and toast. 
Is Mr. Bob aware that his contempt for tea renders 
him liable to a charge of atheism ? Such, at least, is 
Jhe opinion cited in Christian. Falster. Amamitat. 
Philolog. — " Atheum interpretabatur hominem ab her- 
»a The aversum." He would not, I think, have been 
80 irreverent to this beverage of scholars, if he had 
read Peter Petifs Poem in praise of Tea, addressed 
to the learned Huet — or the Epigraph which Pechli- 
nus wrote for an altar he meant to dedicate to this 
herb — or the Anacreontics of Peter Francius, in 
which he calls Tea 

©sac, -S^sp', 3-eutvctv, 

The following passage from one of these Anacre- 
ontics will, I have no doubt, be gratifying to all true 
Theists :— 

©£015, SjwI/TS TTStTpJ 

Ev %pu<rsois <rxu£ji<ri 
A<Jo» TO VSXT*p Hpv). 
£ 5 ft ( StZXOVOlVTO 

2xu50i ? tv (ivppivourt, 
T.o xxK\si s-p?,-7Cuo-a» 
Kss^aig %sps<rcn xoup^i. 

Which may be thus translated : — 

Yes, let Hebe, ever young, 

High in heaven her nectar hold, 
And to Jove's immortal throng 

Pour the tide in cups of gold. — 
Til not envy heaven's princes, 

While, with snowy hands, forme, 
Kate the china teacup rinses, 

And pours out her best Bohea! 

Page 169, line 39. 

Here break we off, at this unhallow'd name. 

The late Lord C. of Ireland had a curious theory 

about names ; — he held that every man with three 

names was a jacobin. His instances in Ireland were 

numerous: — viz. Auhibald Hamilton Rowan, Theo- 



bald Wolfe Tone, James Napper Tandy, John Phil- 
pot Curran, etc. etc and, in England, he produced as 
examples Charles James Fox, Richard Brinsley She- 
ridan, John Home Tooke, Francis Burdett Jones, 
etc. etc. 

The Romans called a thief "homo trium liters 
rum." 

Tun' trium literarum homo 

Mevituperas! Fur. 1 

Plautus, Aulular. Act 2. Scene 4. 

Page 170, line 4. 
The Testament, turn'd into melo-drames nightly. 

" The Old Testament," says the theatrical Critic in 
the Gazette de France, " is a mine of gold for the ma- 
nagers of our small play-houses. A multitude crowa 
round the Theatre de la Gaite every evening to see 
the Passage of the Red Sea." 

In the play-bill of one of these sacred melo-dramea 
at Vienna, we find "The Voice of G— d, by Mr. 
Schwartz." 

Page 171, note 3 
No one can suspect Boileau of a sneer at his royal 
master, but the following lines, intended for praise, 
look very like one. Describing the celebrated pas- 
sage of the Rhine, during which Louis remained on 
the safe side of the river, he says, 

Louis, les animant du feu de son courage, 

Se plaint de s a grandeur } qui V attache au rivage. 

Epit, 4. 

Page 172, line 5. 

Turns from his victims to his glees, 

And has them both well executed. 

How amply these two propensities of the Noblo 

Lord would have been gratified among that ancient 

people of Etruna, who, as Aristotle tells us, used to 

whip their slaves once a year to the sound of flutes : 

Page 175, line 79. 
Lampreys, indeed, seem to have been always a 
favourite dish with Kings — whether from some con- 
geniality between them and that fish, I know not; 
but Dio Cassius tells us that Pollio fattened his lam- 
preys with human blood. St. Louis of France was 
particularly fond of them. — See the anecdote of 



1 Dissaldcus supposes this word to be a glossema: 

that is, he thinks " Fur" has made his escape from the mar- 
gin into the text. 



!U 



184 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Thomas Aquinas eating up his majesty's lamprey, in 
a note upon Rabelais, liv. 3. chap. 2. 

Page 176, line 2. 
Till five o'clock brings on that hour so momentous. 
Had Mr. Bob's Dinner Epistle been inserted, I was 
prepared with an abundance of learned matter to il- 
lustrate it, for which, as indeed, for all my " scientia 
popinae," 1 lam indebted to a friend in the Dublin 
University, — whose reading formerly lay in the magic 
line ; but, in consequence of the Provost's enlightened 
aiarm at such studies, he has taken to the authors 
"de re cibaria" instead; and has left Bodin, Remi- 
gius, Agrippa, and his little dog Filiolus, for Apicius, 
Nonius, and that most learned and savoury Jesuit, 
Bulengerus. 

Page 179, line 64. 
" Live bullion" says merciless Bob, " which I think 
Would, if coin'd with a little mint, sauce, be delicious !" 

Mr. Bob need not be ashamed of his oookery jokes, 
when he is kept in countenance by such men as Ci- 
cero, St. Augustine, and that jovial bishop, Venantius 
Fortunafis. The pun of the great orator upon the 
"jus Verrinum," which he calls bad hog broth, from 
a play upon both the words, is well known ; and the 
Saint's puns upon the conversion of Lot's wife into 
salt are equally ingenious : — " In salem conversa ho- 
minibus fidehbus quoddam praestitit condimentum, quo 
sapiant aliquid, unde illud caveatur exemplum." — De 



I aaaaca 



Civilat. Dei, lib. 16. cap. 30.— The jokes of the pious 
favourite of Queen Radagunda, the convivial Bishop 
Venantius, may be found among his poems, in some 
lines against a cook who had robbed him. The fol- 
lowing is similar to Cicero's pun : — 

Plus juscella Coci quam mea jura valet. 

See his poems, Corpus Radar. Latin, torn. 2. p, 
1732. — Of the same kind was Montmaur's joke, when 
a dish was spilt over him — " summum jus, summa in- 
juria;" and the same celebrated parasite, in ordering 
a sole to be placed before him, said, 

Eligi cui dicas, tu mihi sola places. 

The reader may likewise see, among a good deal 
of kitchen erudition, the learned Lipsius's jokes on 
cutting up a capon, in his Saturnal. Sermon, lib. 2 
cap. 2. 

Page 180, line 9. 

Upon singing and cookery, Bobev, of course, 
Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force. 

Cookeiy has been dignified by the researches of a 
Bacon (see his Natural History, Receipts, etc.) and 
takes its station as one of the Fine Arts in the follow- 
ing passage of Mr. Dugald Stewart. — " Agreeably to 
this view of the subject, sweet may be said to be in- 
trinsically pleasing, and bitter to be relatively pleas - 
ing ; which both are, in many cases, equally essential 
to those effects, which, in the art of cookery, corres- 
pond to that composite beauty, which is the object of 
the painter and of the poet to create."— "Philosophical 
Essay* 






TOM CRIB'S MEMORIAL TO CONGRESS, 



kXK' oux' ojo* IITKTIKHS TTAEON METEXEIN tou; v\ova-iovg £7ri<rTHf*vi ts xxt spirstptx 

H HOAEMIKHS ; E^co i^.— Plato, de Rep. lib. 4. 
If any man doubt the significancy of the language, we refer him to the third volume of Reports, 
set forth by the learned in the laws of Canting., and published in this tongue."— Ben Junson 



PREFACE. 



The Public have already been informed, through 
the medium of the daily prints, that, among the dis- 
tinguished visitors to the Congress lately held at 
Aix-la-Chapelle, were Mr. Bob Gregson, Mr. 
George Cooper, and a few more illustrious brethren 
of The Fancy. It had been resolved at a Grand 
Meeting of the Pugilistic Fraternity, that, as all the 
milling Powers of Europe were about to assemble, 
personally or by deputy, at Aix-la-Chapelle, it was 
but right that The Fancy should have its representa- 
tives there as well as the rest, and these gentlemen 
were accordingly selected for that high and honoura- 
ble office. A description of this Meeting, of the 
speeches spoken, the resolutions, etc. etc. has been 
given in a letter written by one of the most eminent 
of the profession, which will be found in the Appen- 
dix, No. I. Mr. Crib's Memorial, which now, for 
ihe first time, meets the public eye, was drawn up for 
'.he purpose of being transmitted by these gentlemen 
10 Congress ; and, as it could not possibly be in better 
fiands for the enforcement of every point connected 
with the subject, there is every reason to hope that it 
'las made a suitable impression upon that body. 

The favour into which this branch of Gymnastics, 
tailed Pugilism (from the Greek s-ug, as the author of 
Boxiana learnedly observes,) has risen with the Pub- 
lic of late years, and the long season of tranquillity 
which we are now promised by the new Millenna- 
rians of the Holy League, encourage us to look for- 
ward with some degree of sanguineness to an order 
}f things, like that which Plato and Tom Crib have 
described (the former in the motto prefixed to this 
work, and the latter in the interesting Memorial that 
follows,) when the Milling shall succeed to the Mili- 
tary system, and The Fancy will be the sole arbi- 
tress of the trifling disputes of mankind. From a 
wish to throw every possible light on the history of 
an Art, which is destined ere long to have such influ- 
ence upon the affairs of the world, I have, for some 
time past, been employed in a voluminous and elabo- 
rate work, entitled " A Parallel between Ancient and 
Modern Pugilism," which is now in a state of con- 
siderable forwardness, and which I hope to have 
ready for delivery to subscribers on the morning of 
the approaching fight between Randal and Martin. 
Had the elegant author of Boxiana extended his in- 
quh ies to the ancient state of the art, I should not 
2A 



have presumed to interfere with a historian so com- 
petent. But, as his researches into antiquity have 
gone no farther than the one valuable specimen of 
erudition which I have given above, I feel the less 
hesitation 



novos decerper^ flores, 

Insignemque meo capiti petere inde corortam, 
Unde prius nulli velarint tempora Musa . ; 

Lucrct. lib. 4. v. 3. 

The variety of studies necessary for such a task, 
and the multiplicity of references which it requires, 
as well to the living as the dead, can only be fully ap- 
preciated by him who has had the patience to perform 
it. Alternately studying in the Museum and the 
Fives Court — passing from the Academy of Plato to 
that of Mr. Jackson— now indulging in Attic flashes 
with Aristophanes, and now studying Flash in the 
Attics of Cock-Court' 2 — between so many and such 
various associations has my mind beui divided during 
the task, that sometimes, in my bewilderment, 1 have 
confounded Ancients and Moderns together, — mis- 
taken the Greek of St. Giles's for that of Athens, and 
have even found myself tracing Bill Gibbons and his 
Bull in the "taurum tibi, pulcher Apollo,'' , of Virgil. 
My Printer, too, has been affected with similar hallu- 
cinations. The MS. Glorios. of Plautus he convert- 
ed, the other day, into a Glorious Mill; and more 
than once, when I have referred to Tom. prim, or 
Tom. quart, he has substituted Tom Crib and Tom 
Oliver in their places. Notwithstanding all this, the 
work will be found, I trust, tolerably correct ; and as 
an Analysis of its opening Chapters may not only 
gratify the impatience of the Fanciful World, but 
save my future reviewers some trouble, it is here given 
as succinctly as possible. 

Chap. I. contains some account of the ancient in- 
ventors of pugilism, Epeus and Amycus. — The early 
exploit of the former, in milling his twin-brother, in 
ventre matrix, and so getting before him into the world, 
as related by Eustathius on the authority of Lycophron. 
— Amycus, a Royal Amateur of the Fancy, who 
challenged to the scratch all strangers that landed on 



1 To wander through The Fancy's bowers, 
To gather new, unheard-of flowers, 
And wreathe such garbinds lor my brow 
As Poet never wreathed till now ! 
2 The residence of the Nonpareil, Jack Randall, — where 
the day after his last great victory, he hold a levee, which 
was attended, of course, by all the leading characters of St 
Giles's. 



186 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



his shore.— The Combat between him and Pollux] 
(who, to use the classic phrase, served him out,) as 
described by Theocritus, 1 Apollonius Rhodius, 2 and 
Valerius Flaccus. 3 — Respective merits of these three 
descriptions. — Theocritus by far the best ; and, alto- 
gether, perhaps, the most scientific account of a Box- 
ing-match in all antiquity. — Apollonius ought to have 
done better, with such a model before him ; but, evi- 
dently not up to the thing (whatever Scaliger may 
say,) and his similes all slum. 4 — Valerius Flaccus, the 
first Latin Epic Poet after Virgil, has done ample 
justice to this Set-to ; feints, facers,* and ribbers, all 
described most spiritedly. 

Chap. 2. proves that the Pancratium of the ancients, 
as combining boxing and wrestling, was the branch 
of their Gymnastics that most resembled our modern 
Pugilism ; cross-buttocking (or what the Greeks called 
hTrnaKcXi^civ) being as indispensable an ingredient as 
nobbing, flooring, etc. etc. — Their ideas of a stand-up 
fight were very similar to our own, as appears from 
the to Tzauiv aWrfkovs OPGOZTAAHN of Lucian,— 
rrepi Fv/xvas. 

Chap. 3. examines the ancient terms of the Fancy, 
as given by Pollux (Onomast. ad. fin. lib. 3.) and 
others ; and compares them with the modern. — For 
example, ay^eiv, to throttle — Xvyi^eiv, evidently the 
origin of our word to lug — ayKvpi&iv, to anchor a 
fellow (see Grose's Greek Dictionary, for the word 
anchor) — hpaaauv (perf. pass. SeSpaypai,) from which 
is derived to drag ; and whence, also, a flash etymo- 
logist might contrive to derive Spapa, drama, Thespis 
having first performed in a drag. 6 This chapter will 
be found highly curious; and distinguished, I flatter 
myself, by much of that acuteness which enabled a 
late illustrious Professor to discover that our English 
" Son of a Gun" was nothing more than the U.ais 
Tvvris (Dor.) of the Greeks. 

Chap. 4. enumerates the many celebrated Boxers 
of antiquity. — Eryx (grandson of the Amycus already 
mentioned,) whom Hercules is said to have finished 
in style. — Phrynon, the Athenian General, and Auto- 
lycus, of whom, Pausanias tells us, there was a statue 
in the Prytaneum — The celebrated Pugilist, who, at 
the very moment he was expiring, had game enough 



1 Idyl. 22. 

2 Argonaut, lib. 2. 

3 Lib. 4. 

4 Except one, Sovtuttos oix, which is good, and which 
Faivkes, therefore, has omitted. The following couplet 
from his translation is, however, fanciful enough : — 

"So from their batter'd cheeks loud echoes sprung ; 
Their dash'd teeth crackled and their jaw-bones rung." 

5 Emicat hie. dcztramque parat, dextramque minatur 
Tyndarid.es; redil hue oculis et pondere Bebryx 
Sic ratus: ille autem celeri rapit ora sinistra. 

Lib. 4. v. 290. 

We have nere a feint and a facer together. The manner 
in which Valerius Flaccu3 describes the multitude of black- 
guards that usually assemble on such occasions, is highly 
poetical and picturesque: he supposes them to be Shades 
from Tartarus : — 

El pater orantes csesorum Tartarus umbras 
Nubo cava tandem ad men'ne spectacula pugnae 
Emittit ; summi nigrescunt culmina montis. V. 258. 

f The flash term for a cart. 



to make his adversary give in; which interesting cir- 
cumstance forms the subject of one of the Pictures of 
Philostratus, Icon. lib. 2. imag. 6. — and above all, 
that renowned Son of the Fancy, Melancornae, the 
favourite of the Emperor Titus, in whose praise Dio 
Chrysostomus has left us two elaborate orations. 1 — 
The peculiarities of this boxer discussed — his powei 
of standing with his arms extended for two whole 
days, without any rest (dwaros rjv, says Dio, /cat <5uo 
fjpepas ifys jievciv avariTaKwg ras %£ipas, kui ovk av 
etSev ovSsis vcpevra avrov n avairavcapevov waircp £tw- 
daa.- Orat. 28,) by which means he wore out his 
adversary's bottom, and conquered without either 
giving or taking. This bloodless system of milling, 
which trusted for victory to patience alone, has af- 
forded to the orator, Themistius, a happy illustration 
of the peaceful conquests which he attributes to the 
Emperor Valens. 2 

Chap. 5. notices some curious points of similarity 
between the ancient and modern Fancy. — Thus, 
Theocritus, in his Milling-match, calls Amycus " a 
glutton," "which is well known to be the classical 
phrase at Moulsey-Hurst, for one who, like Amycus 
takes a deal of punishment before he is satisfied. 

IIw? yap 5ij Aios vlog AAH^ATON avhpa kuOeiXcv. 

In the same Idyl the poet describes the Bebrycian 
hero as i:\riyais pedvuv, "drunk with blows," which 
is precisely the language of our Fancy bulletins; foi 
example, " Turner appeared as if drunk, and made a 
heavy lolloping hit," 3 etc. etc. — The resemblance in 
the manner of fighting is still more striking and import 
ant. Thus we find Crib's favourite system of milting 
on the retreat, which he practised so successfully in 
his combats with Gregson and Molyneux, adopted by 
Alcidamus, the Spartan, in the battle between him 
and Capaneus, so minutely and vividly described by 
Statius, Thebaid. lib. 6. 

sed non, tamen, immemor artis, 

Adversus fugit, etfugiens tamen ictibus vbstat.* 

And it will be only necessary to compare together 
two extracts from Boxiana and the Bard of Syracuse 
to see how similar in their manoeuvres have been the 
millers of all ages — "The Man of Colour, to prevent 
being fibbed, grasped tight hold of Carter's hand" 1 — 
(Accojnt of the Fight between Robinson the Black 
and Carter,) which, (translating XiXaiopwos, " the Lily- 
white," 6 ) is almost word for word with the following : 
Hrot byt pe^at tl XiXaiopevos peya cpyov 
. Y.Kair\ pev GKairjv UoXv6evKeos eXXa(3e %eipa. 

Thiocrit. 



1 The following words, in which Dio so decidedly prefers 
the art of the Boxer to that of the soldier would perhaps 
have been a still more significant motto to Mr. Crib's Me- 
morial than that which I have chosen from Plato : K»» 
xxiokoo Ss tywyt touto tjjs tv tojj 7ro'^z,uctg apsT>|{ 

2 Hv Tig nri tu)V Trpoyovwv tiov yt/^iTsp-jjv TT'jy.rx; v.vvp 

MiKxyx.0fjt.xg ovo/jix ccutju ouro; ouSevit waiworj 

Tpuxrxg, ov$s irxTXcxg, /aovj) 
xvxa-Txa-ei Trxvrxg xsrixvxiz 



TY[ (TTXTSl XXI TJ) TxsV %£<pu>V 

tooj ai'TijrssA.ouj. — Themist 



Orat. 7rspt Etpt)vits. 
3 Kent's Weekly Despa'ch. 

4 Yet, not unmindful of his art, he hies, 
But turns his face, and combats as he flies. 

Lewis 

5 A manoeuvre, generally called Tom Owen's step. 

6 The Flask term for a negro, and also for a chimuev 
sweeper. 



TOM CRIB'S MEMORIAL TO CONGRESS. 



187 



Chap. 6. proves, from t\ie jawing-maich. and Set-to 
Detween Ulysses and the Beggar in the 18th Book of 
the Odyssey, that the ancients (notwithstanding their 
Sucaia fia%ovTwv, or Laws of Combatants, which, Ar- 
temidorus says in his chap. 33. vzpi Movo/<a^. ex- 
tended to pugilism as well as other kinds of combats) 
did not properly understand fair play ; as Ulysses is 
here obl'ged to require an oath from the standers-by, 
that they will not deal him a sly knock, wliiie he is 
cleaning out the mumper — 

Mr; rig ek Jpu) vpa (ptpwv EfiE X H P l ' Ka X tl '0 
TWri^r] araaQaXAWv, tovtui Se fie. Mpi Sapiaccrr]. 

Chap. 7. describes the Cestus, and shows that the 
Greeks, for mere exercise of sparring, made use of 
muffles or gloves, as we do, which they called otyaipai. 
This appears particularly from a passage in Plato, de 
Lee. lib. 8, where, speaking of training, he says, it is 
only by frequent use of the gloves that a knowledge of 
stopping and hitting can be acquired. The whole 
passage is curious, as proving that the Divine Plato 
was not altogether a novice in the Fancy lay.* — Kai 
ill? cyyvTara rov bjioiov, avri i/xavriov 2<1>AIPAE av 
KF.pudovpeda, &-w? at IIAHrAI te kui at TUN IIAH- 
r$?.N EYAABEIAI Siejjle^etwvto eis ti Svvarov havws. 
— These muffles were called by the Romans sacculi, 
as we rind from Trebellius Pollio, who, in describing 
a triumph of Gallienus, mentions the " Pugdes sac- 
cule non veritate pugilantes." 

Chap. 8. adverts to the pugilistic exhibitions of the 
Spartan ladies, which Propertius has thus comme- 
moratod — 

Puherulentaque ad extremas statfremina metas, 

Ft patitur duro vulnera pancratio ; 
Nunc ligat ad ccestum gaudentia brachialoris, etc. etc. 
Lib. 3. el. 14. 

and, to prove that the moderns are not behind-hand 
with the ancients in this respect, cites the following 
instance recorded in Boxiana : — " George Madox, in 
this battle, was seconded by his sister, Grace, who, 
upon its conclusion, tossed up her hat in defiance, 
and offered to fight any man present ;" — also the me- 
morable challenge, given in the same work, (vol. i. p. 
330. which passed between Mrs. Elizabeth Wilkin- 
son of Clerkenwell, and Miss Hannah Hyfield of 
Newgate-Market — another proof that the English 
may boast many a " dolce guerriera" as well as the 
Greeks. 

Chap. 9. contains Accounts of all the celebrated 
Set-tos of antiquity, translated from the works of the 
different, authors that have described them,— viz. the 
famous Argonautic Battle, as detailed by the three 
poets mentioned in chap. 1. — the Fight between 
Epeus and Euryalus, in the 23d Book of the Iliad, 



1 Another philosopher, Seneca, lias shown himself equally 
flash on the subject, and, in his 13th Epistle, lays it down as 
,in axiom, that no pugilist can be considered worth any 
thing, till he has had his peepers taken measure of for a 
suit of mourning; or, in common language, has received a 
pair of blick eyes. The whole passage is edifying : — " Non 
potest athleta magnos spiritus ad certamen afferre, qui nun- 
luam sugillatus est. Ille quividet sanguinem suuin, cujus 
denies crepuerunt sub pugno, ille qui supnlantatus ad ver- 
santi m tolo till it corpore, nee projecit auimum projectus, 
qui qunties cecidit contumacior resurrexit, cum magna spe 
lesceudit ad pugnam." 



and between Ulysses and Irus in the 18th Book of the 
Odyssey — the Combat of Dares and Entellus in tho 
5th iEneid — of Capaneus and Alcidamus, already re- 
ferred to, in Statius, and of Achelous and Hercules 
in the 9th Book of the Metamorphoses ; though this 
last is rather a wrestling-bout than a mill, resembling 
that between Hercules 1 and Antaeus in the 4th Book 
of Lucan. The reader who is anxious to know how 
I have succeeued in this part of my task, will find, as 
a specimen, my translation from Virgil in the Appen- 
dix to the present work, No. 2. 

Chap. 10. considers the various arguments for and 
against Pugilism, advanced by writers ancient and 
modern. — A strange instance of either ignorance or 
wilful falsehood in Lucian, who, in his Anacharsis, 
has represented Solon as one of the warmest advo- 
cates for Pugilism, whereas we know from Diogenes 
Laertius that that legislator took' every possible pains 
to discourage and suppress it. — Alexander the Great, 
too, tasteless enough to prohibit the Fancy (Plu 
tarch in Vit.) — Galen in many parts of his works, but 
particularly in the Hortat. ad Art. condemns the 
practice as enervating and pernicious. 2 — On the other 
side, the testimonies in its favour, numerous. — The 
greater number of Pindar's Nemean Odes written in 
praise of pugilistic champions ; — and Isocrates, though 
he represents Alcibiades as despising the art, yet ac- 
knowledges that its professors were held in high esti- 
mation through Greece, and that those cities, where 
victorious pugilists were born, became illustrious 
from that circumstance; 3 just as Bristol has been 
rendered immortal by the production of such heroes 
as Tom Crib, Harry Harmer, Big Ben, Dutch Sam, 
etc. etc. — Ammianus Marcellinus tells us how much 
that religious and pugnacious Emperor, Constantius, 
delighted in the Set-tos, " pugilum 4 vicissim se con- 
cidentium perfusorumque sanguine." — To these are 
added still more flattering testimonies ; such as that 
of Isidorus, who calls Pugilism " virtus," as if par 
excellence ; b and the yet more enthusiastic tribute 
with which Eustathius reproaches the Pagans of hav- 
ing enrolled their Boxers in the number of the Gods. 
— In short, the whole chapter is full of erudition and 



1 Though wrestling was evidently the favourite sport of 
Hercules, we find him, in the Alcesles, just returned from a 
Bruising-match ; and it is a curious proof of the superior 
consideration in which these arts were held, that for the 
lighter exercises, he tells us, horses alone were the reward, 
while to conquerors in the higher games of pugilism and 
wrestling, whole herds of cattle (with sometimes a young 
lady into the bargain) were given a£ prizes. 

TO. o-i S'xv -roe fiii'Covx 
N«X'a'0-«, irvypviv xai 7raKt\V, /3ou$Op/3»36 

Twq .£' 85T' *UT0IS 117TI T\ EUTlp. 

2 It was remarked by the ancient physicians, that men 
who were in the habit of boxing and wrestling became re- 
markably lean and slender from the loins downward, while 
lhe upper parts of their frame acquired prodigious size and 
strength. I could name some pugilists of the present day 
whose persons seem to warrant the truth of this observation 

3 Too; t' x'Tk-^t ■*$ CyKovftivo-j;,xx,i -ret? ttoXsh; ovo,uxo-tm$ 
yiyvOftevxg Tuiv viXtovTcdir. ISOCRAT. ~spt tou Zivyavg 

An oration written by Isocrates for the son of Alcibiades. 

4 Notwithstanding that the historian expressly says " pu 
gilum," Lipsius is so anxious to press this circumstance into 
his Account of the Ancient Gladiators, that he insists such 
atrefVusion of claret could only have taken place in the gla- 
diato'ial combat. But Lipsius never was at Moulsey Buist 
— See his Saturnal. Sermon, lib. i. cap. 2. 

5 Origin, lib. xviii. c. 18. 



188 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



vovg; — from Z/ycophron (whose very name smacks 
of pugilism,) down to Boxiana and the Weekly Des- 
patch, not an author on the subject is omitted. 

So much for my " Parallel between Ancient and 
Modern Pugilism." And now with respect to that 
peculiar language called Flash, or St. Giles's Greek, 
in which Mr. Crib's Memorial and the other articles 
in the present volume are written, I beg to trouble the 
reader with a few observations. As this expressive 
language was originally invented, and is still used, 
like the cipher of the diplomatists, for purposes of 
secrecy, and as a means of eluding the vigilance of a 
certain class of persons, called fiashice, Traps, or, 
in common language, Bow-street Officers, it is sub- 
ject of course to continual change, and is perpetually 
either altering the meaning of old words, or adding 
new ones, according as the great object, secrecy, 
renders it prudent to have recourse to such innova- 
tions. In this respect, also, it resembles the cryp- 
tography of kings and ambassadors, who, by a con- 
tinual change of cipher, contrive to baffle the inquisi- 
tiveness of the enemy. But, notwithstanding the Pro- 
tean nature of the Flash or Cant language, the greater 
part of its vocabulary has remained unchanged for 
centuries, and many of the words used by the Cant- 
ing Beggars in Beaumont and Fletcher, 1 and the Gip- 
sies in Ben Jonson's Masque, 2 are still to be heard 
among the Gnostics of Dyot-street and Tothill-fields. 
To prig is still to steal ; 3 to Jib, to beat ; lour, money; 
duds, clothes ; 4 prancers, horses ; bouzing-keri, an ale- 
house ; cove, a fellow ; a sow's baby, a pig, etc. etc. 
There are also several instances of the same term, 
preserved with a totally different signification. Thus, 
to mill, which was originally "to rob," 5 is now "to 
beat or fight ;" and the word rum, which in Ben Jon- 
son's time, and even so late as Grose, meant fine and 
good, is now generally used for the very opposite 
qualities; as, "he's but a rum one," etc. Most of 
the Cant phrases in Head's English Rogue, which 
was published, I believe, in 1666, would be intelli 
gible to a Greek of the present day ; though it must 
be confessed that the Songs which both he and Dek- 
ker have given would puzzle even that "Graiae gentis 
decus," Caleb Baldwin himself. For instance, one 
of the simplest begins, 

Bing out, bien Moits, and toure and toure, 

Bing out, bien Morts and toure ; 
For all your duds are bing'd awast; 

The bien Cove hath the loure. 



1 Tn their amusing comedy of "The Beggar's Bush." 

2 The Masque of the Gipsies Metamorphosed. — The Gip- 
BV language, indeed, with the exception of such terms as re- 
late to their own peculiar customs, differs but little from the 
regular Flash ; as may be seen by consulting the Vocabu- 
lary subjoined to the life of Bamfylde-Moore Carew. 

3 See the third chapter, 1st book, of the History of Jona- 
than Wild, for an "undeniable testimony of the great anti- 
quity of Priggism." 

4 An angler for duds is thus described by Dekker: — " He 
carries a short staff in his hand, which is called a. filch, hav- 
ing in the nab or head of it, aferme (that is to say a hole,) 
into which, upon any piece of service, when he goes a. filch- 
ing, he puttefh a hooke of iron, with which hooke he angles 
at a window in the dead of night, for shirts, smockes, or any 
Other linen or woollen." — English Villanies. 

5 Can they cant or mill? are they masters of their art 1 ?" 
—Ben.Tonson. To mill, however, sometimes signified "to 
rJI " Thus, to mill a bleating cheat, i. e. to kill a sheep. 



To the cultivation, in our times, of the science of 
Pugilism, the Flash language is indebted fur a con 
siderable addition to its treasures. Indeed, so impos- 
sible is it to describe the operations of The Fancy 
; without words of proportionate energy to do justice 
I to the subject, that we find Pope and Cowper, in their 
translation of the Set-to in the Iliad, pressing words 
J into the service which had seldom, I think, if ever, 
| been enlisted into the ranks of poetry before. Thus 
Pope, 

Secure this hand shall his whole frame confound, 
Mash all his bones, and all his body pound. 

Cowper, in the same manner, translates koxJje 8s ... . 
■napriiov, "pash'd him on the cheek ;" and, in describ- 
ing the wrestling-match, makes use of a term, now 
[more properly applied to a peculiar kind of blow, 1 
j of which Mendoza is supposed to have been the in- 
ventor 

Then his wiles 
Forgat not he, but on the ham behind 
Chopped him. 

Before I conclude this Preface, which has already, 
I fear, extended to an unconscionable length, I can- 
j not help expressing my regret at the selection which 
I Mr. Crib has made of one of the Combatants intro- 
duced into the imaginary Set-to that follows. Tha« 
; person has already been exhibited, perhaps, " usque 
I ad nauseam," before the Public , and, without enter- 
ing into the propriety of meddling with such a per- 
sonage at all, it is certain that, as a mere matter of 
taste, he ought now to be let alone. All that can be 
alleged for Mr. Crib is — what Rabelais has said in 
defending the moral notions of another kind of cat- 
tle — he " knows no better." But for myself, in my 
editorial capacity, I take this opportunity of declaring 
that, as far as i" am concerned, the person in question • 
shall henceforward be safe and inviolate ; and, as the 
Convent-garden Managers said, when they withdrew 
their much-hissed elephant, this is positively the last 
time of his appearing on the stage. 



TOM CRIB^S MEMORIAL TO 
CONGRESS. 



Most Holy, and High, and Legitimate squad, 
First Swells 2 of the world, since Boney' s in quod, 3 
Who have every thing now, as Bill Gibbons would 

sa y> 

" Like the bull in the china-sh»p, all your own way"— . 
Whatsoever employs your magnificent ?wbs,* 
Whether diddling your subjects, and gutting theij 
fobs," 



1 " A chopper is a blow, struck op the face with the back 
of the hand. Mendoza claims the honour of its invention, 
but unjustly; he certainly revived, and considerably im- 
proved it. It was practised long before our time. — Brouglj. 
ton occasionally used it; and Slack, it also appears, struck 
the chopper in giving the return in many of his battles."— 
Boxiana, vol. ii. p. 20. 

2 Swell, a great man. 

3 in prison. The dab 's in quod: the rogue is in prison. 

4 Heads. 

5 Taking out the contents. Thus, gutting a quart pol 
(or taking out the. lining of it,) i. e. drinking it off. 



TOM CRIB'S MEMORIAL TO CONGRESS. 



189 



(While you hum the poor spoonies 1 with speeches, so 

pretty, 
'Bout Freedom, and Order, and — all my eye, Betty,) 
Whether praying, or dressing, or dancing the hays, 
Or lapping your congo 2 at Lord C-stl-r — gh's 3 
(While his Lordship, as usual, that very great dab* 
At the flowers of rhet'ric, is flashing his gab 5 ) — 
Or holding State Dinners, to talk of the weather, 
And cut up your mutton and Europe together ! 
Whatever your gammon, whatever your talk, 
Oh deign, ye illustrious Cocks of the Walk, 
To attend for a moment, — and if the Fine Arts 
Of Jibbing* and boring 6 be dear to your hearts ; 
If to level, 6 to punish, 6 to ruffian 6 mankind, 
And to darken their daylights,' 7 be pleasures refined 
(As they must be,) for every Legitimate mind, — 
Oh, listen to one, who, both able and willing 
To spread through creation the mysteries of milling, 
(And, as to whose politics, search the world round, 
Not a sturdier Pit-tite s e'er lived under ground,) 
Has thought of a plan, which — excuse his presump- 
tion, 
He hereby submits to your royal rumgumption. 9 

It being now settled that emperors and kings, 
Like kites made of foolscap, are high-flying things, 
To whose tails a few millions of subjects, or so, 
Have been tied in a siring, to be whisk'd to and fro, 
Just wherever it suits the said foolscap to go — 
This being all settled, and freedom all gammon, 10 
And nought but your honours worth wasting a d — n 

on; 
While snug and secure you may now run your rigs, 11 
Without fear that old Boney will bother your gigs — 
As your Honours, too, bless you ! though all of a trade, 
Yet agreeing like new ones, have lately been made 
Special constables o'er us, for keeping the peace, — 
Let us hope now that wars and rumbustions will cease ; 
That soldiers and guns, like "the Devil and hisworks," 
Will henceforward be left to Jews, Negers, and Turks ; 
Till Brown Bess 12 shall soon, like Miss Tabitha Fusty, 
For want of a spark to go off with, grow rusty, 
And lobsters 13 will lie such a drug upon hand, 
That our do-nothing Captains must all get japann'd ! lA 



1 Simpletons, alias, Innocents. 

2 Drinking your tea. 

3 See the Appendix, No. 3. 

4 An Adept. 

5 Showing off his talk. — Better expressed, perhaps, by a 
(*te wit, who, upon being asked what was going on in the 
House of Commons, answered, " Only Lord C. airing his 
vocabulary." 

6 All terms of the Fancy, and familiar to those who read 
the Transactions of the Pugilistic Society. 

7 To close up their eyes — alias, to sew up their sees. 

8 Tom received his first education in a coal-pit; from 
whence he has been honoured with the name of" the Black 
Diamond." 

9 Gumption, or Rumgumption, comprehension, capacity. 

10 Nonsense or humbug. 

11 Play y>ur tricks. 

12 A soldier's fire-lock. 

13 Soldiers, from the colour of their clothes. " To boil 
one's lobster means for a churchman to turn soldier; lob- 
sters', which are of a bluish black, being made red by boil- 
ing." — Grose. Butler's ingenious simile will occur to the 
reader : 

When, fike a lobster boil'd, the Mora 
From black to red began to turn. 

14 Ordained — i. e. become clergymen. 



My eyes, how delightful !— the rabble well gagg'd, 
The Swells in high feather, and old Boney lagg'd. ' 

But, though we must hope for such good times aa 

these, 
Yet as something may happen to kick up a breeze — 
Some quarrel reserved for your own private pick) ng- 
Some grudge, even now in your great gizzards stickirg, 
(God knows about what — about money mayhap, 
Or the Papists, or Dutch, or that kid 2 Master Nap)— 
And, setting in case there should come such a rumpvs, 
As some mode of settling the chat we must compass, 
With which the lag-rag 3 will have nothing to do— 
What think you, great Swells, of a Royal Set-to? 4 
A Ri?ig and fair fst- work at Aix-la-Chapelle, 
Or at old Moulsey-Hurst, if you like it as well — 
And that all may be fair as to wind, weight, and 

science, 
ril answer to train the whole Holy Alliance ! 
Just think, please your Majesties, how you 'd prefer it 
To mills such as Waterloo, where all the merit 
To vulgar red-coated rapscallions must fall, 
Who have no Right Divine to have merit at all ! 
How much more select your own quiet Set-tos! — 
And how vastly genteeler 't will sound in the news, 
(Rents Weekly Despatch, that beats ali others hollow 
For Fancy transactions,) in terms such as follow : — 



ACCOUNT OF THE GRAND SET-TO BE- 
TWEEN LONG SANDY AND GEORGY THE 
PORPUS. 
Last Tuesday, at Moulsey, the Balance of Power 
Was settled by Twelve Tightish Rounds, in an hour— 
The Buffers,* both " Boys of the Holy Ground;"— 6 
Long Sandy, by name of the Bear much renown'd, 
And Georgy the Porpus, prime glutton reckon'd — 
Old thingummee Pottso 7 was Long Sandy's second, 
And Georgy's was Pat C — stl — r — gh, — he who 

lives 
At the sign of the King^s Arms a-kimbo, and gives 
His small beer about, with the air of a chap 
Who believed himself a prodigious strong tap. 
This being the first true Legitimate Match 
Since Tom took to training these Swells for the 

scratch, 
Every lover of life, that had rhino to spare, 
From sly little Moses to B — r — g, was there 



1 Transported. 

2 Child. — Hence our useful word, kidnapper — to nab a lad 
being to steal a child. Indeed, we need but recollect ihc 

any excellent and necessary words to which Johnson has 
affixed the stigma of "cant term," to be aware haw consi- 
derably the English language has been enriched by the con- 
ributions of the Flash fraternity. 

3 The common people, the mobility. 

4 A boxing-match. 

5 Boxers — Irish cant. 

6 The hitch in the metre here was rendered necessary by 
the quotation, which is from the celebrated Fancy Chant 
ending, every verse, thus : — 

For we are the boys of the Holy Ground, 

And we'll dance upon nothing, and turn us round ! 

It is almost needless to add, that the Holy Ground, or 

Land, is a well-known region of St. Giles's. 

7 Tom means, I presume, the celebrated diplomatist, 
Pozzo di Borgo. — The Irish used to claim the dancer Dide- 
lot as their countryman, insisting that the O had slipped out 
of its right place, and that his real name was Mr. O'Diddle 
On the same principle they will, perhaps, assert their right 
to M. Pozzo. 



190 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Never since the renown'd days of Brougiiton and 

Figg 1 
Was the Franciful World in such very prime twig — 2 
And long before daylight, gigs, rattlers,* and pradsf 
Were in motion for Moulsey, brimful of the Lads. 
Jack Eld — n, Old Sid. and some more, had come 

down 
On the evening before, and put up at The Crown, — 
Their old favourite sign, where themselves and their 

brothers 
Get grub b at cheap rate, though it fleeces all others ; 
Nor matters it how we plebeians condemn, 
As The Crown 's always sure of its license from them. 

T was diverting to see, as one ogled around, 

How Corinthians 6 and Commoners mixed on the 

ground. 
Here M — ntr — SE and an Israelite met face to face, 
The Duke, a place-hunter — the Jew, from Duke's 

Place ; 
While Nicky V — ns — tt — t, not caring to roam, 
Got among the white-bag-men,'' and felt quite at home. 
Here stood in a corner, well screen'd from the wea- 
ther, 
Old Sid. and the great Doctor Eady together, 
Both famed on the walls — with a d — n, in addition, 
Prefix'd to the name of the former Physician. 
Here C — md — N, who never till now was suspected 
Of Fancy, or aught that is therewith connected, 
Got close to a dealer in donkies, who eyed him, 
Jack Scroggins remark' d, "just as if he'd have buy'd 

him ;" 
While poor Bogy B — ck — gh — m well might look 

pale, 
As there stood a great Rat-catcher close to his tail ! 



Being hack'd in the service, it seems had given way, 
And, as rope is an article much up in price 
Since the bank took to hanging, the lads had to splice. 
At length the two Swells having enter'd the Ring, 
To the tune the Cow died of, called "Gjd save the 

King," 
Each threw up his castor* 'mid general huzzas — 
And, if dressing would do, never yet, since the days 
When Humphries stood up to the Israelite's thumps, 
In gold-spangled stockings and touch-me-not pumps, 2 
Has there any thing equall'd the fal-lals and tricks 
That bedizen'd old Georgy's bang up tog and kicks.' 3 
Having first shaken daddies* (to show, Jackson said, 
It was "pro bono Pimlico" b chiefly they bled) 
Both peeVd e — but, on laying his Dandy belt by, 
Old Georgy wentfloush, and his backers looked sliy; 
For they saw, notwithstanding Crib's honest en- 
deavour 
To train down the crummy,'' 't was monstrous as ever! 
Not so with Long Sandy— prarae meat every inch — 
Which, of course, made the Gnostics 8 on t' other side 

flinch ; 
And Bob W— ls— n from Southwark, the gamest 

chap there, 
Was now heard to sing out "Ten to one on the Bear!" 

First Round. Very cautious — the Kiddies both 

spared 
As if shy of the scratch — while the Porpus kept guard 
O'er his beautiful mug 9 as if fearing to hazard 
One damaging touch in so dandy a mazzard. 
Which t' other observing put in his One-Two 10 
Between Georgy's left ribs, with a knuckle so true, 
That had his heart lain in the right place, no doubt 
But the Bears double-knock would have rummaged it 
out — 



'Mongst the vehicles, too, which were many and va- As {t was > Master Georgy came souse with the whack, 



nous, 
From natty barouche down to buggy precarious, 
We tungg'd more than one queensh sort of tarn-out ; — 
C — nn — g came in a job, and then canter'd about 
On, a showy, but hot and unsound, bit of blood 
(For a leader once meant, but cast off, as not good,) 
Looking round to secure a snug place if he could : — 
While Eld — n, long doubting between a grey nag 
And a while one to mount, took his stand in a drag. 6 
At a quarter past ten, by Pat C — stl — R — gh's 

tattler, 9 ^ 
Crib came on the ground in a four-in-hand rattler ; 
(For Tom, since he took to these Holy Allies, 
Is as lip-lop a beau as all Bond-street supplies;) 
Ana, on seeing the Champion, loud cries of " Fight, 

fight," 
"Ring, rin?," "Whip the Gemmen," were heard left. 

and right. 
But the kids, though impatient, were doom'd to delay, 
As the old P. C. 10 ropes (which are now mark'd H. 

A. 11 ) 



1 The chief founders of the modern school of pugilism. 

2 High spirits or condition. 3 Coaches. 
4 Horses. ' 5 Victuals. 

6 Men of rank — vide Boxiana, ■passim. 

7 Pick-pockets. 8 A cart or waggon. 9 A watch. 
a0 The ropes and stakes used at the prize-fights, being the 

»roperty of the Pugilistic Club, are marked with the initials 
? G 11 For " Holy Alliance 



And there sprawl'd, like a turtle tuiu'd queer on ns 
back. 

Second Round. Rather sprightly — the Bear, in 

high, gig, 
Took a fancy to flirt with the Porpus's wig ; 
And, had it been either a loose tie or bob, 
He'd have claw'd it clean off, but 'twas glued to his 

nob. 
So he tipp'd him a settler they call "a Spoil-Dandy" 
Full plump in the whisker.— High betting on Sandy 



1 Hat. 

2 " The fine manly form of Humphries was seen to great 
advantage; he had on a pair of fine flannel drawers, white 
silk stockings, the clocks of which were spangled with gold, 
and pumps tied with ribbon." — (Account of the First Battle 
between Humphries and Mendoza.) — The epistle which 
Humphries wrote to a friend, communicating the result of 
this fight, is worthy of a Lacedaemonian. — " Sir, I huve done 
the Jew, and am in good health. Rich. Humphries." 

3 Tog and kicks, coat and breeches. — Tojr is one of the 
cant words which Dekker cites, as "retaining a certain salt 
and tasting of some wit and learning," being derived from 
the Latin toga. 4 Hands. 

5 Mr. Jackson's residence is in Pimlico. — This gentleman 
(as he well deserves to be called, from the correctness of fris 
conduct and the peculiar urbanity of his manners) forms that 
useful link between the amateurs and the professors if pu- 
gilism, which, when broken, it will be difficult, if not wholly 
impossible to replace. 6 Stripped. 

7 Fat. 8 Knowing ones. 9 Face. 

10 Two blows succeeding each other rapidly. Thus 
.speaking of Randall) "his one-two are put in with the 
sharpness of lightning." 



TOM CRIB'S MEMORIAL TO CONGRESS. 



iyi 



Third Round. Somewhat slack — Georgy tried to 

make play, 
But his own victualling-office 1 stood much in the way ; 
While Sandy's long arms — long enough for a douse 
All the way from Kamschatka to Johnny Groat's 

House? — 
Kept paddling about the poor Porpus's minis, 2 
Till they made him as hot and as cross as Lent buns! 3 

Fourth Rouxd. Georgy's backers look'd blank 

at the lad, 
When they saw what a mm knack of shifting* he had — 
An old t\ uk of his youth — but the Bear, up to slum, 5 
Follow'd close on my gentleman, kneading his crum 
As expertly as any Dead Man 6 about town, 
All the way to the ropes — where, as Georgy went 

down, 
Sandy lipp'd him a dose of that kind, that, when taken, 
It is n't the stuff, but the patient that 's shaken. 

Fifth Round. Georgy tried for his customer's 

head — 
(The part of Long Sandy that's softest, 'tis said ; 
And the chat is that Nap, when he had him in tow, 
Found his knowkdge-box' always the first tiling to 

go)— 
Neat inilling this Round — what with clouts on the 7106, 
Home hits in the bread-basket, 3 clicks in the gob, 9 
And plumps in the daylights, 10 a prettier treat 
Between two Johnny Raws" 'tis not easy to meet. 

Sixth Round. Georgy's friends in high flourish 

and hopes; 
Jack Eld — n, with others, came close to the ropes — 
And when Georgv, one time, got the head of the Bear 
Into Chancery 12 Eld — N sung out " keep him there :'' 
But the cull broke away, as he would from Lob's 

pound, 13 
And, after a rum sort of rujJUming Round, 
Like cronies they hugg'd, and came smack to the 

ground ; 
Poor Sandy the undermost, smother'd and spread 
Like a German tuck'd under his huge feather-bed!' 4 



1 The stomach or paunch. 2 Mouth. 

3 Hot cross buns. 

4 " Some have censured shifting as an unmanly custom." 
— Boxiana. 

5 Humbug or gammon. 

6 Dead Men are Bakers — so called from the loaves false- 
ly charged to their master's customers. The following is 
from an Account of the Battle fought by Nosworthy, the 
B-aker, with Martin, the Jew: 

" First round. Nosworthy, on the alert, planted a tre- 
mendous hit on Martin's mouth, which not only dra wed forth 
a profusion of claret, but he went down. — Loud shouting 
from the Dead Men ! 

''Second Round. Nosworthy begnn to serve the Jew in 
Style, and his hits told most tremendously. Martin made a 
good round of it, but fell rather distressed. The Dead Men 
now opened their mouths wide, and loudly ottered six to 
four on the Master of the Rolls!" 

7 The head. 8 The stomach. 9 The mouth. 
]0 Tli6 eyes. 11 Novices. 

12 Getting the head under the arm, for the purpose of 
fibbing. 

".13 A prison. — See Dr. Grey's explanation of this phrase 
in his notes upon Hudibras. 

14 The Germans sleep between two beds: and it is re- 
lated that an Irish traveller, upon finding a feather bed thus 
laid over him, took it into his head that the people slept in 
strata, one upon the other, and said to the attendant, "will 
you be good enough to tell the gentleman or lady that is to 
lie over me, to make haste, as 1 want to go asleep !" 



All pitied the patient — and loud exclamations, 

u My eyes!" and "my wig!" spoke the general sen 

sations — 
'Twas thought Sandy's soui was squeezed out of 

his coipus, 
So heavy the crush. — Two to one on the Porpus! 

Nota bene. — 'Twas curious to see all the pigeons 
Sent off by Jews, Flashmen, and other religions, 
To office, 1 with all due despatch, through the air, 
To the Bulls of the alley the fate of the Bear; 
(For in these Fancy times, 'tis your hits in the muns, 
And your choppers and foorers, that govern the 

Funds)— 
And Consols, which had been all day shy enough, 
When 't was known in the Alley that Old Blue end 

Buff 
Had been down on the Bear, rose at once — up to 

snuff!* 

Seventh Round. Though hot-press" d, and as flat 

as a crumpet, 
Long Sandy show'd game again, scorning to rump it; 
And, fixing his eye on the Porpus's snout, 3 
Which he knew that Adonis felt pee ry* about, 
By a feint, truly elegant, tipp'd him a punch in 
The critical place, where he cupboards his luncheon, 
Which knock'd all the rich Curacoa into cruds, 
And doubled him up, like a bag of old duds.' 3 
There lie lay almost frummagem'd 6 — every one said 
'T was all Dick;/ with Georgy, his mug hung so dead. 
And 'twas only by calling "your wife, Sir. your wife!" 
(As a man would cry "fire!") they could start him 

to life. 
Up he rose in a funk,'' lapp'd a toothful of brandy, 
And to it again — Any odds upon Sandy. 

Eighth Round. Sandy work'd like a first-rate do* 

molisher: 
Bear as he is, yet his lick is no polisher ; 
And, take him at ruffianing work (though in conv 

mon, he 
Hums about Peace and all that, like a Domine s ) 
Sandy 's the boy, if once to it they fall, 
That will play up old gooseberri/ soon with them all. 
This round was but short — after humouring awhile, 
He proceeded to serve an ejectment, in style, 
Upon Georgy's front grinders* which damaged his 

smile 
So completely that bets ran a hundred to ten 
The Adonis would ne'er fash his ivory' again — 
And 'twas pretty to see him roiVd round with the 

shock, 
Like a cask of fresh blubber in old Greenland Dock! 



1 To signify by letter. 

2 This phrase, denoting elevation of various kinds, 13 
often rendered more emphatic by such adjuncts ;is " Up to 
snuff and twopenny. — Up to snuff, and a pinch above j't," 
etc. etc. 

3 Nose. 4 Suspicious. 5 Clothes. 
6 Choaked. 7 Fright. 

8 A Parson.— Thus in that truly classical song the Chrit 
tening of Little Joey: 

When Pominc had named the Kid, 
Then home again they piked it ; 

A flash of lightning was prepared 
For every one that liked it." 

9 Teeth. 10 Show bis teoth. 



192 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Ninth Round. One of Georgy's bright ogles 1 was 

put 
On the bankruptcy list, with its shop-windows shut; 
While the other soon made quite as tag-rag a show, 
All rimm'd round with black, like the Courier in woe! 
Much alarm was now seen 'mong the Israelite Kids, 
And B — r — g, — the devil's own boy for the quids, 2 — 
Despatch'd off a pigeon (the species, no doubt, 
That they call B — r — g's stock-dowe) with word "to 

sell out." 

From this to the finish 't was all fiddle f addle — 
Poor Georgy, at last, could scarce hold up his 
^^ daddle — 

mth grinders dislodg'd and with peepers both 

poach'd, 3 
T was not till the Tenth Round his claret* was 

broach d : 
As the cellarage lay so deep down in the fat, 
Like his old M a's purse, 't was cursed hard to 

get at. 
But a pelt in the <mellers b (too pretty to shun, 
If the lad even could) set it going like fun , 
And this being the first Royal Claret let flow, 
Since Tom took the Holy Alliance in tow, 
The uncorking produced much sensation about, 
As bets had been flush on the first painted snout. 
Nota bene. — A note was wing'd off to the Square, 
Just to hint of this awful phlebotomy there ; — 
B03 Gj. egson, whose wit at such things is exceeding, 6 
Inclosing a large sprig of "Love lies a bleeding!" 

In short, not to dwell on each facer and fall, 
Poor Georgy was done up in no time at all, 
And his spunkiest backers were forced to sing small.'' 
In vain did they try to fig up the old lad ; 
'T was like using persuaders* upon a dead prad; 9 
In vain Bogy 10 B — ck — gh — M fondly besought him, 
To show like himself, if not game at least bottom ; 
While M — rl — y, that very great Count, stood de- 
ploring 
He had n't taught Georgy his newmodes ofboring: 11 
All useless — no art can transmogrify truth — 
It was plain the conceit was mill'd out of the youth. 
In the Twelfth and Last Round Sandy fetch'd him 

a downer, 
That left him all 's one as cold meat for the Crowner; 12 
On which the whole populace flash' d the white grin 
Like a basket of chips, and poor Georgy gave in: 13 
While the fiddlers (old Potts having tipp'd them a 

bandy) 1 * 
Play'd "Green grow the rushes," 15 in honour of 
Sandy ! 



I Eyes. 2 Money. 

y French cant ; Les yeux poches au beurre noir. — See 
the Dictionnaire Coinique. 
4 Biood. 5 The nose. 

6 Some specimens of Mr. Gregson's lyrical talents are 
givf^n in the Appendix, No. 4. 

7 To he humbled or abashed. 8 Spurs. 9 Horse. 
10 For the meaning of this term, see Grose. 

II "The ponderosity of Crib, when in close quarters with 
nis opponent, evidently bored in upon him," etc. 

12 The Coroner. 

13 The ancient Greeks had a phrase of similar structure 
ivd'tS'iifti, cedo. 

14 A bandy or cripple, a sixpence : " that piece being 
commonly much bent and distorted." — Grose. 

15 The well-known compliment paid to the Emperor of 
all the Russias by some Irish musicians. 



Now, what say your Majesties ?— is ji't this prime i 
Was there ever French Bulletin half so sublime? 
Or could old Nap himself, in his glory, 1 have wish'd 
To show up a fat Gemman more handsomely dish'd ? — 
Oh, bless your great hearts, let them say what they 

will, 
Nothing's half so genteel as a regular Mill; 
And, for settling of balances, all I know is, 
'T is the way Caleb Baldwin prefers settling his. 2 
As for backers, you 've lots of Big-wigs about Court 
That will back you — the raff being tired of that 

sport, — 
And if quids should be wanting to make the match 

good, 
There's B— r— ng, the Prince of Rag Rhino, who 

stood 
(T' other day, you know) bail for the seedy 3 Right 

Liners : 
Who knows but, if coax'd, he may shell out the 

shiners ? 4 
The shiners ! Lord, Lord, what a bounce do I say ! 
As if we could hope to have rags done away, 
Or see any thing shining, while Van. has the sway ! 

As to training, a Court 's but a rum sort of station 
To choose for that sober and chaste operation ; 5 
For, as old Ikey Pig s said of Courts, " by de 

heavens, 
Dey 're all, but the Fives Court, at sixes and sevens. 1 ' 
What with snoozing,' 1 high grubbing* and guzzling 

like Cloe, 
Your Majesties, pardon me, all get so doughy, 
That take the whole kit, down from Sandy the Bear 
To him who makes duds for the Virgin to wear, 
I 'd chuse but Jack Scroggins, and feel disappointed 
If Jack did n't tell out the whole Lord's Anointed ! 

But, barring these nat'ral defects (which, I feel, 
My remarking on thus may be thought ungenteel,) 
And allowing for delicate fams, 1 ' which have merely 
Been handling the sceptre, and that, too, but queerly, 
I 'm not without hopes, and would stand a tight bet, 
That I '11 make something game of your Majesties yet. 
So, say but the word — if you 're up to the freak, 
Let us have a prime match of it, Greek against Greek, 
And I '11 put you on beef-steaks and sweating next 

week — 
While, for teaching you every perfection, that throws a 
Renown upon milling — the tact of Mendoza — 



1 See Appendix, No. 5. 

2 A trilling instance of which is recorded in Boxiana - . — 
" A fracas occurred between Caleb Baldwin and the keepers 
of the gate. The latter not immediately recognizing the 
veteran of the ring, refused his vehicle admittance without 
the usual tip ; but Caleb, finding argufying the topic would 
not do, instead of paying them in the new coinage, dealt 
out another sort of currency, and, although destitute of tne 
W. W. P. it had such an instantaneous effect upon the 
Johnny Raws, that the gate flew open, and Caleb rode 
through in Triumph." 

3 Poor. 4 Produce the guineas. 

5 The extreme rigour, in these respects, of the ancient 
system of training, may be inferred from the instances men- 
tioned by iElian. Not only pugilists, but even players an 
the harp, were, during the time of their probation, <rui/ou<r«£*5 
xpxSetg x«« x7Tiipoi. — De Jinimal. lib. 6. cap. 1. 

6 A Jew, so nick-named — one of the Big ones. He wai 
beaten by Crib, on Blackheath, in the year 1805. 

7 Sleeping. 8 Feeding 
9 Fams oxfambles, hands. 



TOM CRIB'S MEMORIAL TO CONGRESS. 



19d 



The charm, by which Humphries 1 contrived to 

infuse 
The three Graces themselves into all his One-Twos — 
The nobbers of Johnson 2 — Big Ben's 3 banging 

brain-blows — 
The weaving of Sam,* that turn'd faces to rainbows- 
Old Corcoran's click, b that laid customers flat — 
Paddy Ryan from Dublin's* renown'd "coup de 

Pat;" 
And my own improved method of tickling a rib, 
You may always command — 

Your devoted 

Tom Crib. 



APPENDIX. 

No. I. 

Account of a Grand Pugilistic Meeting, held at Bel- 
cher's {Castle Tavern, Holborn,) Tom Crib in 
the Chair, to take into consideration the propriety 
of sending Representatives of the Fancy to Con- 
' gress. — Extracted from a letter written on the occa- 
sion by Harry Harmer, the Hammerer, 6 to Ned 
Painter. 

A\\' ovSsig to KAN 
Tov tixwSeu, axoucnj TX>M.» 

****** 

List Friday night a bang-up set 

Of milling blades at Belcher's met ; 

All high-bred Heroes of the Ring, 

Whose very gammon would delight one ; 
Who, nursed beneath The Fancy's wing, 

Show all her feathers — but the white one. 

Brave Tom, the Champion, with an air 
Almost Corinthian,* took the Chair ; 
And kept the Coves 9 in quiet tune, 

By showing such a fist of mutton 
As, on a Point of Order, soon 

Would take the shine from Speaker Sutton. 



1 Humphries was called "The Gentleman Boxer." He 
was (says the author of Boxiana) remarkably graceful, and 
his attitudes were of the most elegant and impressive nature. 

2 Tom Johnson, who, till his fight with Big Ben, was 
hailed as the Champion of England. 

3 Ben Brain, alias Big Ben, wore the honours of the 
Championship till his death. 

4 Dutch Ham, a hero, of whom all the lovers of the 
Fancy speak, as the Swedes do of Charles the Twelfth, 
with tears in their eyes. 

5 Celebrated Irish pugilists. 

6 So called in his double capacity of Boxer and Copper- 
B>nith. 

7 The passage in Pindar, from which the following lines 
of" Hark, the merry Christ Church Bells," are evidently 
borrowed: 

The devil a man, 

Will leave his can, 

Till he hears the Mighty Tom. 

8 i. e. With the air, almost, of a man of rank and fashion. 
Indeed, according to Horace's notions of a. peerage, Tom's 
claims to it are indisputable ; 



ilium superare pugnis 



Nobilem, 



9 Fellows. 



2B 



And all the lads look'd gay and bright, 

And gin and genius flash'd about, 
And whosoe'er grew unpolite, 

The well-bred Champion served him out 

As we'd been summon'd thus to quaff 

Our Beady 1 o'er some State affairs, 
Of course we mix'd not with the raff, 

But had the Sunday room, up stairs. 
And when we well had sluiced our gobs, 2 

'Till all were in prime twig for chatter, 
Tom rose, and to our learned nobs 

Propounded thus the important matter : — 

" Gemmen," says he — Tom's words, you know ^ 

Come like his hitting, strong but slow — 

" Seeing as how those Swells, that made 

Old Boney quit the hammering trade 

(All prime ones in their own conceit,) 

Will shortly at the Congress meet — 

(Some place that 's like the Finish, 3 lads, 

Where all your high pedestrian pads, 

That have been up and out all night, 

Running their rigs among the rattlers* 
At morning meet, and — honour bright — 

Agree to share the blunt and tattlers ! 5 ) - 
Seeing as how, I say, these Swells 

Are soon to meet, by special summons, 
To chime together like ' hell's bells,' 

And laugh at all mankind as rum ones— 
I see no reason, when such things 
Are going on among these Kings, 
Why We, who 're of the Fancy lay, 5 
As dead hands at a mill as they, 
And quite as ready, after it, 
To share the spoil and grab the bit, 7 
Should not be there to join the chat, 
To see, at least, what fun they're at, 
And help their Majesties to find 
New modes of punishing mankind. 
What say you, lads ? is any spark 
Among you ready for a lark 8 
To this same Congress ? — Caleb, Joe, 
Bill, Bob, what say you ? — yes or no V* 
Thus spoke the Champion, Prime of men, 

And loud and long we cheer' d his prattle 
With shouts, that thunder'd through the ken. 

And made Tom's Sunday tea-things rattle ! 

A pause ensued — 'till cries of "Gregson" 
Brought Bob, the Poet, on his legs soon — 
{My eyes, how prettily Bob writes ! 
Talk of your Camels, Hogs, and Crabs, 10 



1 Deady's gin, otherwise Deady's brilliant stark naked 

2 Had drunk heartily. 

3 A public-house in Covent-Garden, memorable as one 
of the places where the Gentlemen Depredators of the night 
(the Holy League of the Road) meet, early in the morning, 
for the purpose of sharing the spoil, and arranging other 
matters connected with their most Christian Alliance. 

4 Robbing travellers in chaises, etc. 

5 The money and watches. 

6 Particular pursuit or enterprize. Thus, "he is on the 
kid-lay," i. e. stopping children with parcels and robbing 
them — the ken-crack-lay, house-breaking, etc. etc. 

7 To seize the money. 

8 A frolic or party of Pleasure. 9 House. 

10 By this curious zoological assemblage (something likM 
Berni's " porci, e poeti, e piddochi,") the writer mean*, 
suppose, Messrs. Campbell, Crabbe, and Hogg. 



194 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



And twenty more such Pidcock frights— 

Bob's worth a hundred of these dabs : 
For a short turn up } at a sonnet, 

A round of odes, or Pastoral bout, 
All Lombard-street to nine-pence on it, 2 

Bobby's the boy would clean them out!) 
u Gemmen" says he — (Bob's eloquence 

Lies much in C — nn — g's line, 't is said ; 
For, when Bob can't afford us sense, 

He tips us poetry, instead )- 
" Gemmen, before I touch the matter, 
On which I'm here had up for patter* 
A few short words I first must spare, 
To him, the Hero, that sits there, 
Swigging Blue Ruin,* in that chair. 
(Hear — hear) — His fame I need not tell, 

For that, my friends, all England's loud with ; 
But this I'll say, a civder Swell 

I'd never wish to blow a cloud b with !" 

At these brave words, we, every one, 

Sung out " hear— hear" — and clapp'd like fun. 

For, knowing how, on Moulsey's plain, 

The CiiAMYioufbUd the Poet's nob, 6 
This buttering-up, 7 against the grain, 

We thought was cursed genteel in Bob. 
And here again, we may remark 

Bob's likeness to the Lisbon jobber 8 — 
For, though all know that flashy spark 

From C — st — R — gh received a nobber, 
That made him look like sneaking Jerry, 
And laid him up in ordinary, 9 
Yet now, such loving pals^ are they, 

That Georgy, wiser as he 's older, 
Instead of facing C — st — R — gh, 

Is proud to be his bottle-holder 

But to return to Bob's harangue, 
'Twas deuced fine — no slum or slang — 
But such as you could smoke the bard in, — 
All full of flowers, like Common Garden, 
With lots of figures, neat and bright, 
Like Mother Salmon's — wax-work quite ! 

The next was Turner — nobbing Ned — 
Who put his right leg forth, 11 and said, 
u Tom, I admire your notion much ; 

And please the pigs, if well and hearty, 
I somehow thinks I'll have a touch, 

Myself, at this said Congress party. 



1 A turn-up is properly a casual and hasty set-to. 

2 More usually "Lombard-street to a China orange." 
There are several of these fanciful forms of betting — 
" Chelsea College to a centry-box," " Pompey's Pillar to a 
6tick of sealing-wax," etc. etc. 

3 Talk. 4 Gin. 

5 To smoke a pipe. This phrase is highly poetical, and 
explains what Homer meant by the epithet, v£<?£M5<-sf>eT>jj. 

6 In the year 1808, when Crib defeated Gregson. 

7 Praising or flattering. 

8 These parallels between great men are truly edifying. 

9 Sea cant— a good deal of which has been introduced 
into the regular Flash, by such classic heroes as Scroggins, 
Crockey, etc. 

10 Friends. 

11 Ned's favourite ProZeo-omena in battle as well as in de- 
bale. As this position is said to render him " very hard to 
be got at," I would recommend poor Mr. V — ns-t — t to try 
it as a last resource, in his next set-to with Mr. T— rn— y. { 



Though no great shakes at learned chat^ 

If settling Europe be the sport, 
They'll find I'm just the boy for that, 

As tipping settlers 1 is my forte!" 

Then up rose Ward, the veteran Joe, 
And, 'twixt his whiffs, 2 suggested briefly 

That but a. few, at first, should go, 

And those, the light-weight Gemmen chiefly ; 

As if too many " Big ones went, 
They might alarm the Continent!!" 

Joe added, then, that as 't was known 

The R — g — t, bless his wig ! had shown 

A taste for Art (like Joey's own 3 ) 

And meant, 'mong other sporting things, 

To have the heads of all those Kings, 

And conqu'rors, whom he loves so dearly 

Taken off— on canvas, merely ; 

God forbid the other mode ! — 

He (Joe) would from his own abode 

(The dragon* — famed for Fancy works, 

Drawings of Heroes, and of— corks) 

Furnish such Gemmen of the Fist, b 

As would complete the R — g — t's list. 

"Thus, Champion Tom," said he, "would look 

Right well, hung up beside the Duke — 

Tom's noddle being (if its frame 

Had but the gilding) much the same — 

And, as a partner for Old Blu, 

Bill Gibbons or myself would do." 

Loud cheering at this speech of Joey's — 
Who, as the Dilettanti know, is 
(With all his other learned parts) 
Down as a hammer 6 to the Arts ! 

Old Bill, the Black, 7 — you know him, Neddy - 
(With mug, s whose hue the ebon shames, 



1 A kind of blow, whose sedative nature is sufficiently 
explained by the name it bears. 

2 Joe being particularly fond of " that costly and gentle- 
manlike smoke," as Dekkor calls it. The talent which Joe 
possesses of uttering Flash while he smokes — " ex fumo 
dare lucem''' — is very remarkable. 

3 Joe's taste for pictures has been thus commemorated 
by the great Historian of Pugilism—" If Joe Ward cannot 
boast of a splendid gallery of pictures formed of selectiona 
from the great foreign masters, he can sport such a col- 
lection of native subjects as, in many instances, must be 
considered unique. Portraits of nearly all the pugilists 
(many of them in whole lengths and attitudes) are to he 
found, from the days of Figg and Broughton down to the 
present period, with likenesses of many distinguished ama- 
teurs, among whom are Captain Barclay, the cnis-ic Dr- 
Johnson, the Duke of Cumberland, etc. His parlour ia 
decorated in a similar manner ; and his partiality for pictures 
has gone so far, that even the tap-room contains many ex- 
cellent subjects !" — Boxiana, vol. i. p. 431. 

4 The Green Dragon, King-street, near Swallow-street, 
" where (says the same author) any person may have an 
opportunity of verifying what has been asserted, in viewing 
Ward's Cabinet of the Fancy /" 

5 Among the portraits is one of Bill Gibbons, by a 
pupil of the great Fuseli, which gave occasion to the follow 
ing impromptu: — 

Though you are one of Fuseli's scholars, 
This question I'll dare to propose, — 

How the devil could you use water-colours, 
In painting Bill Gibbons's nosel 

6 To be down to any thing is pretty much the same as ba 
ing up to it, and " down as a hammer is," of course, rt 
intensivum of the phrase. 

7 Richmond. 8 Face 



TOM CRIB'S MEMORIAL TO CONGRESS. 



195 



Reflected in a pint of Deady, 

Like a large Collier in the Thames) 
Though somewhat cut, 1 just begg'd to say 
He hoped that Swell, Lord C — st — R — gh, 
Would show the Lily-Whites 2 fair play; 
'* And not — as once he did" — says Bill, 

" Among those Kings, so high and squirish, 
Leave us, poor Blacks, to fare as ill 
As if we were but pigs, or Irish !" 

Bill Gibbons, rising, wish'd to know 
Whether 'twas meant his Bull should go — 



1 Cut, tipsy ; another remarkable instance of the simi- 
larity that exists between the language of the Classics and 
ihat of St. Giles's. — In Martial we find "Incaluit quoties 
saucia vena mero." Ennius, too, has " sauciavit se flore 
Lilieri ;" and Justin, " hesterno mero saucii." 

2 Lily- Whiles (or Snow-balls,) Negroes. 



" A.s, should their Majesties be dull," 
Says Bill, " there 's nothing like a Bull :' 
"And How me tight," — (Bill Gibbons ne'er 
In all his days was known to swear, 
Except light oaths, to grace his speeches, 
Like "dash my. wig," or " burn my breeches!") 

" Blow me — " 
— Just then, the Chair, 2 already 
Grown rather lively with the Deady, 



1 Bill Gibbons has, T believe, been lately rivalled in this 
peculiar Walk of the Fancy, by the superior merits of Tom 
Oliver's Game Bull. 

2 From the respect which I bear to all sorts of dignita- 
ries, and my unwillingness to meddle with the " imputed 
weaknesses of the great," I have been induced to suppress 
the remainder of this detail. 



No. II. 



Virgil. Mneid. Lib. v. 426. 

Constitit in digitos extemplo arrectus uterque, 
Brachiaque ad superas interritus extulit auras. 
Abduxere retro longe capita ardua ab ictu : 
Immiscentque manus manibus, pugnamque lacessunt 
llle, pedum melior motu, fretusque juventa : 
Hie, membris et mole valens ; 

sed tarda trementi 
Genua labant, vastos quatit seger anhelitus artus. 

Multa viri nequicquam inter se vuinera jactant, 
Multa cavo lateri ingeminant, et pectore vastos 
Dant sonitus ; erratque aures et tempora circum 
Crebra manus duro crepitant sub vulnere mala?. 



Stat gravis Entellus, nisuque immotus eodem, 
Corpore tela modo atque oculis vigilantibus exit. 



Ille, velut celsam oppugnat qui molibus urbem, 
Aut montana sedet circum castella sub armis ; 
Nunc hos, nunc illos aditus, omnemque pererrat 
Arte locum, et variis assultibus irritus urget. 



No. II. 



Account of the Milling-match between Entellus and 
Dares, translated from the Fifth Book of the JEnexd, 
by one of the fancy. 
With daddies* high upraised, and nob held back, 
In awful prescience of the impending thwack, 
Both Kiddies 2 stood — and with prelusive spar, 
And light manoeuvring, kindled up the war ! 
The One, in bloom of youth — a light-weight blade — 
The Other, vast, gigantic, as if made, 
Express, by Nature for the hammering trade ; 
But aged, 3 slow, with stiff limbs, tottering much, 
And lungs, that lack'd the bellows-mender's touch. 

Yet, sprightly to the Scratch both Buffers came, 
While ribbers rung from each resounding frame, 
And divers digs, and many a ponderous pelt, 
Were on their broad bread-baskets heard and felt. 
With roving aim, but aim that rarely miss'd, 
Round lugs and ogles* flew the frequent fist ; 
While showers of facers told so deadly well, 
That the crush'd jaw-bones crackled as they feA ! 
But firmly stood Entellus — and still bright, 
Though bent by age, with all The Fancy's light, 
Stopped with a skill, and rallied with a fire 
The Immortal Fancy could alone inspire ! 
While Dares, shifting round, with looks of thought, 
An opening to the Cove's huge carcase sought 
(Like General Preston, in that awful hour, 
When on one leg he hopp'd to — take the Tower !) 
And here, and there, explored with active j/m 5 
And skilful feint, some guardless pass to win, 
And prove a boring guest when once let in. 



1 Hands. 

2 Fellows, usually young fellows. 

3 Macrobius, in his explanation of the various properties 
of the number Seven, says, that the fifth Hebdomas of man's 
life (the age of 35) is the completion of his strength; that 
therefore pugilists, if not successful, usually give over their 
profession at that time. — '' Inter pugiies denique haec con- 
suetudo conservatur, ut quos jam coronavere victoria, nihil 
de se amplius in increment.is virium sperent; qui vero ex- 
pertes hujus gloriae usque illo n>anserunt, a professions dis- 
cedant." In Somn. Scip. Lib. 1. 

4 Ears and Eyes. 5 Arm. 



196 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Ostendit dextram insurgens Entellus, et alte 
Extulit: ille ictum venientem a vertice veiox 
Praevidit, celerique elapsus corpore cessit. 
Entellus vires in ventum effudit, et ultro 
Ipse gravis graviterque ad terrarn pondere vasto 
Concidit: ut quondam cava concidit, aut Erymantho. 
Ant Ida in magna, radicibus eruta pinus. 



Consurgunt studiis Teucri et Trinacria pubes : 
It clamor coelo ; primusque accurrit Acestes 
^Equffivumque ab humo miserans attollit amicum. 



At non tardatus casu, neque territus heros 
Acrior ad pugnam redit, ac vim suscitat ira : 
Turn pudor incendit vires, et conscia virtus ; 
Pracipitemque Daren ardens agit sequore toto, 
Nunc dextra ingeminans ictus, nunc ille sinistra. 



Nee mora, nee requies : quam multa grandine nimbi 
Culminibus crepitant, sic densis ictibus heros 
Creber utraque manu pulsat versatque Dareta. 

Turn pater iEneas procedere longius iras, 
Et ssevire animis Entellum haud passus acerbis ; 
Sed finem imposuit pugnae, fessumque Dareta 
Eripuit, mulcens dictis, ac talia fatur : 

Infelix ! quae tanta animum dementia cepit ? 
Non vires alias, conversaque numina sentis ? 
Cede Deo. 



Dixitque, et praelia voce diremit. 
A st ilium fidi aequales, genua aegra trahentem, 
Jaetantemque utroque caput, crassumque cruorem 
Ore rejectantem, mixtosque in sanguine dentes, 
Ducunt ad naves. 



And now Entellus, with an eye that plann'd 
Punishing deeds, high raised his heavy hand , 
But, ere the sledge came down, young Dares spied 
Its shadow o'er his brow, and slipp'd aside — 
So nimbly slipp'd, that the vain nobber pass"d 
Through empty air ; and He, so high, so vast, 
"Who dealt the stroke, came thundering to the ground!- 
Not B — ck — gh-m himself, with bulkier sound, 1 
Uprooted from the field of Whiggish glories, 
Fell souse, of late, among the astonish'd Tories ! 2 
Instant the Ring was broke, and shouts and yelis 
From Trojan Flashmen and Sicilian Swells 
Fill'd the wide heaven — while, touch'd with grief to 

see 
His pal, 3 well-known through many a larlt and spree,* 
Thus rumly floor' d, the kind Acestes ran, 
And pitying raised from earth the game old man, 
Uncow'd, undamaged to the sport he came, 
His limbs all muscle, and his soul all flame. 
The memory of his milling glories past, 
The shame that aught but death should see him grass" 1 d, 
All fired the veteran's pluck — with fury flush'd, 
Full on his light-limb'd customer he rush'd, — 
And hammering right and left, with ponderous swing, 5 
Rujflari'd the reeling youngster round the Ring — 
Nor rest, nor pause, nor breathing-time was given, 
But, rapid as the rattling hail from heaven 
Beats on the house-top, showers of Randall's sliof 
Around the Trojan's lugs flew peppering hot ! 
'Till now iENEAS, fill'd with anxious dread, 
Rush'd in between them, and, with words well-bred, 
Preserved alike the peace and Dares' head, 
Both which the veteran much inclined to break — 
Then kindly thus the punish' d youth bespake : 
" Poor Johnny Raw! what madness could impel 
So rum a Flat to face so prime a Sviell ? 
See'st thou not, boy, the Fancy, heavenly Maid, 
Herself descends to this great Hammerer's aid, 
And, singling him from all her flash adorers, 
Shines in his hits, and thunders in his floorers? 
Then, yield thee, youth — nor such a spooney be, 
To think mere man can mill a Deity !" 

Thus spoke the Chief— and now, the scrimage o'er, 
His faithful pals the done-up Dares bore 
Back to his home, with tottering gams, sunk heart, 
And muns and noddle pink'd in every part. 7 



1 As the uprooted trunk in the original is said to be 
"cava," the epithet here ought, perhaps, to be "hollower 
sound." 

2 I trust my conversion of the Erymanthian pine into his 
L — ds — p will be thought happy and ingenious. It was sug 
gested, indeed, by the recollection that Erymanthus was 
also famous for another sort of natural production, very 
common in society at all periods, and which no one but 
Hercules eve. seems to have known how to manage. 
Though even he is described by Valerius Flaccus as— 
" Erymanthaei sudantem pondere monstri." 

3 Friend. 4 Party of pleasure and frolic. 

5 Thia phrase is but too applicable to the round hitting 
of the ancients, who, it appears by the engravings in Mer- 
curialis de Art. Gymnast, knew as little of our straight for- 
ward mode as the uninitiated Irish of the present day. I 
hav«, by the by, discovered some errors in Mercurialis, as 
well as in two other modern authors upon Pugilism (viz. 
Petrus Faber, in his Agonisticon, and that indefatigable 
classic antiquary, M. Burette, in his " Memoire pour eervir a 
l'Histoire du Pugilat des Anciens,") which I shall have tha 
pleasure of pointing out in my forthcoming "Parallel." 

6 A favourite blow of the Nonpariel's, so called. 

7 There are two o<- three Epigrams in the Greek Antho 



TOM CRIB'S MEMORIAL TO CONGRESS. 



197 



While from his gob the guggling claret gush'd, 
And lots of grinde i, from their sockets erush'd, 
Foith with the crimson tide in rattling fragments 
rush'd ! 



No. III. 



As illustrative of the Noble Lord's visit to Congress, I take 
the liberty of giving the two following pieces of poetry, 
which appeared some time since in the Morning Chroni- 
cle, and which are from the pen, I suspect, of that face- 
tious Historian of the Fudges, Mr. Thomas Brown, the 
Younger. 



LINES 

ON THE DEPARTURE OF LORDS C — ST — R — GH AND 
ST — W — RT FOR THE CONTINENT. 
Jit Paris 1 et Fratres, et qui rapuere sub illis 
Vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas. 

Ovid. Metam. lib. 13. v. 202. 

Go, Brothers in wisdom — go, bright pair of Peers, 
And may Cupid and Fame fan you both with their 
pinions ! 

The One, the best lover we have — of Ms years, 
And the other Prime Statesman of Britain's domi- 



Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile 

Of the Misses that love and the monarchs that 
prize thee ; 

Forget Mrs. Ang — lo T — yl — r awhile, 

And all tailors but him who so well dandifies thee. 

Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff, 
Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart 
thee, 

But show the young Misses thou 'it scholar enough 
To translate " Amor Fortis," a love about forty! ' 

And sure 'tis no wonder, when, fresh as young Mars, 

From the battle you came, with the Orders you'd 

earn'd in 't, 

That sweet Lady Fanny should cry out " my stars!" 

And forget that the Moon, too, was some way con- 

cern'd in 't. 



logy, ridiculing the state of mutilation and disfigurement to 

winch the pugilists were reduced by their combats. The 
following four lines are from an Epigram by Lucilhus, lib. 2. 
. Koc-xit/ov n xsCaX.il <rov, AaroUofasfi;, yiyivY l Ta,i % 

H TJI» (TJITOXO^-OUV pUbA.3tp»JOV T» XXTM. 

OfTx'5 fi.vpfty,x.wv Tpv7T? l y.x.TX Xorx **' cp'*, 
TpzfiftctTX rwv XupiXoov AvStx xn <t>pvyi%. 

Literally, as follows : — " Thy head, O Apollophanes, is per- 
forated like a sieve, or like the leaves of an old worm-eaten 
book ; and the numerous scars, both straight and cross- 
ways, which have been left upon thy pate by the cestus, 
very much resemble the score of a Lydian or Phrygian piece 
of music." Periphrastically, thus: 
Your noddle, dear Jack, full of holes like a sieve, 

Is so figured, and dotted, and scratch'd, I declare, 
By vour customers' fists, one would almost believe 

They had punch? d a whole verse of" The Wooc 
there ! 

It ou»ht to be mentioned, that the word "punching" is 
used both in boxing and music-engraving. 

1 Ovid is mistaken in saying that it was " At Paris" ttise 
rapacious transactions took place — we should read ' At 
Vienna." 



Woodpecker" 



For not the great R — g — t himself has endured 
(Though I 've seen him with badges and orders aL 
shine, 

Till he look'd like a house that was over insured,) 
A much heavier burthen of glories than thine. 

And 'tis plain, when a wealthy young lady so mad is, 
Or any young ladies can so go astray, 

As to marry old Dandies that might be their daddies, 
The stars 1 are in fault, my Lord St — w — rt, not 
they! 

Thou, too, t' other brother, thou Tully of Tories, 

Thou Malaprop Cicero, over whose lips 
Such a smooth rigmarole about " monarchs," and 
" glories," 
And "nullidge" 2 and "features," like syllabub 
slips. 

Go, haste, at the Congress pursue thy vocation 
Of adding fresh sums to this National Debt of ours, 

Leaguing with Kings, who for mere recreation, 
Break promises, fast as your Lordship breaks me- 
taphors. 

Fare ye well, fare ye well, bright Pair of Peers ! 

And may Cupid and Fame fan you both with their 
pinions ! 

The One, the best lover we have — of Ms years, 
And the Other, Prime Statesman of Britain's do- 
minions. 



TO THE SHIP IN WHICH LORD C— ST— R- 
— GH SAILED FOR THE CONTINENT 

Imitated from Horace, Lib. 1. Ode 3 

So may my Lady's prayers prevail, 3 

And C — nn — g's too, and lucid Br — gge's, 
And Eld — n beg a favouring gale 

From Eolus, that older Bags, 4 
To speed thee on thy destined way, 
Oh ship, that bear'st our C — st — R — gh, 4 
Our gracious R — g — t's better half, 6 

And, therefore, quarter of a King — 
(As Van, or any other calf, 

May find without much figuring.) 
Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes, 

Waft this Lord of place and pelf, 
Any where his Lordship pleases, 

Though 't were to the D — 1 himself! 

Oh, what a face of brass was his, 7 
Who first at Congress show'd his phiz — 



1 " When weak women go astray, 
The stars are more in fault than they." 
2 It is thus the Noble Lord pronounces the word " kno»v 
ledge" — deriving it, as far as his own share is concerned, 
from the Latin " nullus." 

3 Sic te diva potens Cypri, 

Sic fratres Helena?, lucida sidera, 
Ventorumque regat pater. 
4 See a description of the «o-xo», or Bags of Eolus in 
the Odyssey, lib. 10. 

5 Navis, quae tibi creditum 

Debes Virgilium. 

6 Animaa dimidium meum. 

7 Eli robur et ass triplex 

Circa pectus erat, qui, etc. 



198 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



To sign away the Rights of Man 

To Russian threats and Austrian juggle ; 
And leave the sinking African 1 

To fall without one saving struggle— 
'Mong ministers from North and South, 

To show his lack of shame and sense, 
And hoist the sign of " Bull and Mouth" 

For blunders and for eloquence ! 

In vain we wish our Sees, at home 2 

To mind their papers, desks, and shelves, 

If silly Sees, abroad will roam 

And make such noodles of themselves. 

But such hath always been the case— 

For matchless impudence of face, 

There 's nothing like your Tory race ! 3 

First, Pitt, 4 the chosen of England, taught her 

A taste for famine, fire, and slaughter. 

Then came the Doctor, 5 for our ease, 

With E— d— ns, Ch— TH— MS, H-WK-B-S, 

And other deadly maladies. 

When each, in turn, had run their rigs, 

Necessity brought in the Whigs : e 

And oh, I blush, I blush to say, 

When these, in turn, were put to flight, too, 
Hlustrious T— MP— E flew away 

With lots of pens lie had no right to!'' 

In short, what will not mortal man do ! 3 
And now, that — strife and bloodshed past — 

We've done on earth what harm we can do, 
We gravely take to Heaven at last ; 9 

And think its favouring smile to purchase 

(Oh Lord, good Lord!) by — building churches ! 



No. IV. 

BOB GREGSON, 

POET LAUREATE OF THE FANCY. 

" For hitting and getting away (says the elegant 
Author ofBoxiana) Richmond is distinguished; and 
the brave Molineux keeps a strong hold in the cir- 
cle of boxers, as a pugilist of the first class ; while 

1 prascipitem Africum 

Decertantem Aquilonibus. 

2 Nequicquam Deus abscidit 

Prudenspceano dissociabili 
Terras, si tamen impice 

Non tangenda Rates transiliunt vada. 
This last line, we may suppose, alludes to some distinguish- 
ed Rats that attended the voyager. 

3 Audax omnia perpeti ' 
Gens ruit per vetitum nefas. 

4 Audax Japeti genus 

Ignem fraude mala gentibusintulit. 

5 Post 

macies, et nova febrium 

Terris incubuit cohors. 

6 tarda necessitas 

Lethi corripuit gradum. 

7 Expertus vacuum Daedalus aera 
Pennis vov homini datis. 

This allusion to the 12001. worth of stationary, which his 
Lordship ordered, when on the point of vacating hi« nlace, 
!s particularly happy. — Ed. 

8 Nil mortalibus arduum est. 

9 Ccelum ipsum petimus stultitia. 



the Champion of England stands unrivalled foi hig 
punishment, game, and milling on the retreat! — but, 
notwithstanding the above variety of qualifications, it 
has been reserved for Bob Greg son, alone, from hia 
union of pugilism and poetry, to recount the deeda 
of his Brethren of the Fist in heroic verse, like the 
bards of old, sounding the praises of their warlike 
champions." The same author also adds, that "al- 
though not possessing the terseness and originality 
of Dryden, or the musical cadence and correctness 
of Pope, yet still Bob has entered into his peculiar 

bject with a characteristic energy and apposite 
spirit." Vol. i. p. 357 

This high praise of Mr. Gregson'S talents is fully 
borne out by the specimen which nis eulogist has 
given, page 358 — a very spirited Chr'int, or Nemean 
ode, entitled " British Lads and Blaf £ Millers" 

The connexion between poetical and pugnacious 
propensities seem to have been ingeniously adum- 
brated by the ancients, in the bow with which they 
armed Apollo : 

$o«/3a> yxp x.xt TOJON S7riTps7rira,t x«» AOIAH. 

Callimach. Hymn, in Apollin. v. 44. 

The same mythological bard informs us that, when 

Minerva bestowed the gift of inspiration upon Tire- 

sias, she also made him a present of a large cudgel : 

Aaxrco xxt UZTA BAKTPON: 

another evident intimation of the congeniality sup- 
posed to exist between the exercises of the Imagina- 
tion and those of The Fancy, ^o no one at the 
present day is the double wreath more justly due than 
to Mr. Bob Gregson. In addition to his numerous 
original productions, he has condescended to give 
imitations of some of our living poets — particularly 
of Lord Byron and Mr. Moore; and the amatory 
style of the latter gentleman has been caught, with 
peculiar felicity, in the following lines, which were 
addressed, some years ago, to Miss Grace Maddox, 
a- young Lady of pugilistic celebrity, of whom I have, 
already made honourable mention in the Preface. 



LINES 

TO MISS GRACE MADDOX, THE FAIR PUGILIST 

Written in imitation of the style of Moore. 

by bob gregson, p. p. 

Sweet Maid of the Fancy! — whose ogles,* adorninj 

That beautiful cheek, ever budding like bowers, 
Are bright as the gems that the first Jew 2 of morning 
Hawks round Covent-Garden, 'mid cart-loads of 
flowers ! 

Oh Grace of the Graces ! whose ki?~ to my lip 
Is as sweet as the brandy and tea, rather thinnish, 

That Knights of the Rumpad 3 so rurally sip, 

At the first blush of dawn, in the Tap of the Finish!' 



1 Eves. 

2 By the trifling alteration of "dew" into "Jew," Mr 
Gre^on has contrived to collect the three chief ingredient? 
of Moore's pogtry, viz. dews, gems, and flowers, into the 
short compass of these two lines. 



Ji Highwaymen, 
•t See Note, page 193. 
beverage at the Finish. 



Brandy and tea is the favourite 



TOM CRIB'S MEMORIAL TO CONGRESS. 



19S 



Ah, never be false to me, fair as thou art, 

Nor belie all the many kind things thou hast said ; 

The falsehood of other nymphs touches the Heart, 
But thy Jibbing, my dear, plays the dev'l with the 
Head! 

Yet, who would not prize, beyond honours and pelf, 
A maid to whom Beauty such treasures has granted, 

That, ah ! she not only has black eyes herself, 

But can furnish a friend with a pair, too, if wanted ! 

Lord St — w — rt's a hero (as many suppose,) 
And the Lady he woos is a rich and a rare one ; 

His heart is in Chancery, every one knows, 
And so would his head be, if thou wert his fair one. 

Sweet Maid of the Fancy! when love first came o'er 
me, 

1 felt rather queerish, I freely confess ; 
But now I've thy beauties each moment before me, 

The pleasure grows more, and the queerishness less. 

Thus a new set of darbies, 1 when first they are worn, 
Makes the Jail-bird 2 uneasy, though splendid their 
ray; 

But the links will lie lighter the longer they're borne, 
And the comfort increase, as the shine fades away ! 



I had hoped that it would have been in my power 
to gratify the reader with several of Mr. Gregson's 
lyrical productions, but I have only been able to pro- 
cure copies of Two Songs, or Chaunts, which were 
written by him for a Masquerade, or Fancy Ball, 
given lately at one of the most Fashionable Cock-and- 
Hen clubs in St. Giles's. Though most of the com- 
pany were without characters, there were a few very 
lively and interesting maskers ; among whom, we 
particularly noticed Bill Richmond, as the Emperor 
of Haijti, 3 attended by Sutton, as a sort of black 
Mr. V — ns— t — t ; and Ikey Pig made an excel- 
lent L — s D — xh — t. The beautiful Mrs. Crockey, 4 
who keeps the Great Rag Shop in Bermondsey, went 
as the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, She was 
observed to flirt a good deal with the black Mr. 
V — ns — T — t, but, to do her justice, she guarded her 
"Hesperidum mala" with all the vigilance of a dra- 
goness. Jack Holmes, 5 the pugilistic Coachman, 
personated Lord C — st — R — gh, and sang in admira- 
ble style 

Ya-hip, my Hearties ! here am I 
That drive the Constitution Fly. 
This Song (which was written for him by Mr. 



1 Fetters. 

2 Prisoner — This being the only bird in the whole range 
cf Ornithology which the author of Lalla Rookh has noi 
pressed into his service. Mr. Gregson may consider himself 
very lucky in being able to lay hold cf it. 

3" Hi? Majesty (in a Song which I regret I cannot give) 
professed his intentions — 

To take to strong measures like some of his kin— 
To turn away Count Lemonade, and bring in 
A more spirited ministry under Duke Gin! 

4 A relative of poor Crockey, who was lagged some time 
since. 

5 The same, I suppose, that served out Blake (alias Tom 
Tough) some years a:ro, at Wilsden Green. The Ffi&t/ 
Gazette, on that occasion, remarked, that poor Holmes's 
face was " rendered perfectly unintelligible.'''' 



Gregson, and in which the language and sentiments 
of Coachee are transferred so ingeniously to the No* 
ble person represented) is as follows : — 

YA-HIP, MY HEARTIES! 

Sung by Jack Holmes, the Coachman, at a late Masque- 
rade in St. Giles's, in the character of Lo: d C — ST — R — GH 

I first was hired to peg a Hack 1 
They call "The Erin," sometime back, 
Where soon I learn'd to patter flash, 2 
To curb the tits 3 and tip the lash — 
Which pleased the Master of the Crown 
So much, he had me up to town, 
And gave me lots of quids 4 a year 
To tool 1 ' " The Constitution" here, 
So, ya-hip, Hearties ! here am I 
That drive the Constitution Fly. 

Some wonder how the Fly holds out, 

So rotten 't is, within, without ; 

So loaded too, through thick and thin, 

And with such heavy creturs In. 

But Lord, 'twill 'ast our time — or if 

The wheels should, now and then, get stiff, 

Oil of Pcdm V the thing that, flowing, 

Sets the naves and felloes 7 going ! 

So, ya-hip, Hearties ! etc. 

Some wonder, too, the tits that pull 
This rum concern along, so full, 
Should never back or bolt, or kick 
The load and driver to Old Nick. 
But, never fear — the breed, though British, 
Is now no longer game or skittish ; 
Except sometimes about their corn, 
Tamer Houyhnhnms 8 ne'er were born. 
So, ya-hip, Hearties ! etc. 

And then so sociably we ride ! — 
While some have places, snug, inside, 
Some hoping to be there anon, 
Through many a dirty road hang on. 
And when we reach a filthy spot 
(Plenty of which there are, God wot,) 
You'd laugh to see, with what an air 
We take the spatter — each his share ! 
So, ya-hip, Hearties ! etc. 



1 To drive a hackney coach. Hack, however, seems in 
this place to mean an old broken down stage-coach. 

2 To talk slang, parliamentary or otherwise. 

3 Horses. 4 Money. 

5 A process carried on successfully under the Roman Em- 
perors, as appears from what Tacitus says of the " Instru- 
menta Regni." — To tool is a. technical phi qse among ihu 
Knights of the Whip; thus, that illustrious member of the 
Society, Richard Cypher, Esq. says : "I've dash'd at every 
thing — pegged at ajervy — tooVd a mail-coach." 

6 Money. 

7 Iri Mr. Gregson's MS. these words are spelled " knaves 
and fellows'' but I have printed them according to the 
proper wheelright orthography." 

8 The extent of Mr. Gregson's learning will, no doubt, 
astonish the reader; and it appears by the following lines, 
from a Panegyric written upon him, by One of the Fancy, 
that he is also a considerable adept in the Latin language' 

" As to sciences — Bob knows a little of all, 
And, in Latin, to show that he 's no ignoramus, 

He wrote once an Ode on his friend, Major Paul, 
And the motto was Paulo majora canamus I" 



£00 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The other song of Mr. Gregson, which I have been 
lucky enough to lav hold of, was sung by Old 
Prosy, the Jew, who went in the character of Major 
C — rtw — ght, and who having been, at one time 
ef his life, apprentice to a mountebank doctor, was 
able to enumerate, with much volubility, the virtues 
of a certain infallible nostrum, which he called his 
Annual Pill. The pronunciation of the Jew 
added considerably to the effect. 

THE ANNUAL PILL. 

Sung by Old Prosy, the Jew, in the Character of Major 
C — rtw — GHT. 

Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, 

Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay? 
Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let ma say vat I vill, 

Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say ! 
*T is so pretty a bolus ! — just down let it go, 

And at vonce, such a radical shange you vill see, 
Dat I'd not be surprish'd, like de horse in de show, 

If our heads all were found, vere our tailsh ought 
to be! 
Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, etc. 

'Twill cure all Electors, and purge avay clear 

Dat mighty bad itching dey've got in deir hands — 
'Twill cure, too, all Statesmen, of dullness, ma tear, 
Though the case vas as desperate as poor Mister 
Van's. 
Dere is noting at all vat dis Pill vill not reach — 
Give de Sinecure Shentleman von little grain, 
Pless ma heart, it vill act like de salt on de leech, 
And he'll throw de pounds, shillings, and pence, up 
again ! 
Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, etc. 

'T would be tedious, ma tear, all its peauties to paint — 
But, among oder tings fundamentally wrong, 

It vill cure de Proad Pottom 1 — a common complaint 
Among M. P's. and weavers — from sitting too 
long. 2 

Should symptoms of speeching preak out on a dunce, 
(Vat is often de case) it vill stop de disease, 



1 Meaning, T presume, Coalition Administrations. 

2 Whether sedentary habits have any thing to do with 
this peculiar shape, I cannot determine ; but that some have 
supposed a sort of connexion between them, appears from 
the following remark, quoted in Kornmann's curious book, 
de Virgin it at. is Jure — "Ratio perquam lepida est apud 
Kirchner. in Legato, cum natura illas partes, quae ad ses- 
Bionem sunt destinane, latiores in fasminis fecerit quam in 
virigj innuens domi eas manere debere." Cap. 40. 



And pring avay all de long speeches at vonce, 
Dat else vould, like tape-vorms, come by degrees! 

Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, 
Dat 's to purify every ting nashty avay ? 

Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let ma say vat I vill, 
Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I s^y ! 



No. V. 

The following poem is also from the Morning Chronicle, 
and has every appearance of being by the same pen as 
the two others I have quoted. The Examiner, indeed, in 
extracting it from the Chronicle, says, " we think we can 
guess whose easy and sparkling hand it is." 

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE. 



Effare causam nominis, 
Utrum ne mores hoc tui 
Komen dedere, an nomen hoc 
Secuta morum regula. 

Ausonius. 

Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Low 
(By name, and ah ! by nature so,) 

As thou art fond of persecutions, 
Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated, 
How Captain Gulliver was treated, 

When thrown among the Lilliputians. 

They tied him down — these little men did — 
And having valiantly ascended 

Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance, 
They did so strut! — upon my soul, 
It must have been extremely droll 

To see their pigmy pride's exuberance ! 

And how the doughty mannikins 
Amused themselves with sticking pins 

And needles in the great man's breeches ; 
And how some very little things, 
That pass'd for Lords, on scaffoldings 

Got up and worried him with speeches. 

Alas, alas ! that it should happen 

To mighty men to be caught napping ! — 

Though different, too, these persecutions; 
For Gulliver, there, took the nap, 
While, here, the Nap, oh sad mishap, 

Is taken by the Lilliputians ' 






RHYMES ON THE ROAD, 

EXTRACTED FROM THE JOURNAL 

OF A 

TRAVELLING MEMBER OF THE POCOCURANTE SOCIETY, 1819, 



The Gentleman, from whose Journal the following 
extracts are taken, was obliged to leave England some 
years ago (in consequence of an unfortunate attach- 
ment, which might have ended in bringing him into 
Doctors' Commons,) and has but very recently been 
able to return to England. The greater part of these 
poems were, as he himself mentions in his Introduc- 
tion, written or composed in an old caleche, for the 
purpose of beguiling the ennui of solitary travelling ; 
and as verses made by a gentleman in his sleep have 
lately been called " a psychological curiosity," it is to 
be hoped that verses made by a gentleman to keep 
himself awake may be honoured with some appella- 
tion equally Greek. 



INTRODUCTORY RHYMES. 

Different Attitudes in which Authors compose. — Hayes, 
Henry Stephens, Herodotus, etc. — Writing inBed. — 
in the Fields. — Plato and Sir Richard Blackmore. — 
Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs. — Madame de 
Stael. — PJiyming on the Road, in an old Caleche. 

What various attitudes, and ways, 

And tricks, we authors have in writing ! 

While some write sitting, some, like Bayes, 
Usually stand while they're inditing. 

Poets there are, who wear the floor out, 

Measuring a line at every stride ; 

While some, like Henry Stephens, pour out 
Rhymes by the dozen, while they ride. 1 

Herodotus wrote most in bed; 

And Richerand, a French physician, 
Declares the clock work of the head 

Goes best in that reclined position. 
If >ou consult Montaigne 2 and Pliny on 
The subject, 't is their joint opinion 
That Thought its richest harvest yields 
Abroad, among the woods and fields ; 
That bards, who deal in small retail, 

At home may, at their counters, stop ; 
But that the grove, the hill, the vale, 

Are Poesy's true wholesale shop. 



1 Pleraque sua carmina equilans composuit. — Paravicin. 
lingular. 

2 Mes pensees dorment, si je les assis. — Montaigne. 
Animus eorum, qui in aperto aere ambulant, attollitur 

Pliny. 

2C 



And truly I suspect they're right — 

For, many a time, on summer eves, 
Just at that closing hour of light, 

When, like an eastern Prince, who leapes 
For distant war his Haram bowers, 
The Sun bids farewell to the flowers, 
Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing 
'Mid all the glory of his going — 
Even I have felt beneath those beams, 

When wand'ring through the fields* alone, 
Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams, 

That, far too bright to be my own, 
Seem'd lent me by the Sunny Power, 
That was abroad at that still hour. 

If thus I've felt, how must they lee*, 

The few, whom genuine Genius warms, 
And stamps upon their soul his seal, 

Graven with Beauty's countless forms :— 
The few upon this earth who seem 
Born to give truth to Plato's dream, 
Since in their souls, as in a glass, 

Shadows of things divine appear — 
Reflections of bright forms that pass 

Through fairer worlds beyond our sphere . 

But this reminds me I digress ; — 

For Plato, too, produced, 't is said 
(As one indeed might almost guess,) 

His glorious visions all in bed. 1 
'T was in his carriage the sublime 
Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme , 

And (if the wits don't do him wrong,) 
'Twixt death and epics pass'd his time, 

Scribbling and killing all day long— 
Like Phoebus in his car, at ease, 

Now warbling forth a lofty song, 
Now murdering the young Niobes. 

There was a hero 'mong the Danes, 
Who wrote, we're told, 'mid all the pains 

And horrors of exenteration, 
Nine charming odes, which, if you look, 

You'll find preserved, with a translation, 
By Bartholinus in his book. 2 



1 The only authority I know for imputing this pracuce to 
Plato and Herodotus, is a Latin poem by M. de Vaioia oo 
his Bed, in which he says. 

Lucifer Herodotum viditvesperque cubaetem; 
Desedit totos hie Plato saepe dies. 

2 Eadem cura nee minores inter cruciates animam infeli- 
cem agenti fuit Asbioino Prudae Danico heroi, cum Bruso 



202 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



In short, 't were endless to recite 

The various modes in which men write. 

Some wits are only in the mind 

When beaux and belles are round them prating ; 
Some, when they dress for dinner, find 

Their muse and valet both in waiting, 
And manage, at the self-same time, 
To adjust a neckcloth and a rhyme. 

Some bards there are who cannot scribble 
Without a glove, to tear or nibble, 
Or a small twig to whisk about — 

As if the hidden founts of Fancy, 
Like those of water, were found out 

By mystic tricks of rhabdomancy. 
Such was the little feathery wand 1 
That, held for ever in the hand 
Of her who won and wore the crown 

Of female genius in this age, 
Seem'd the conductor, that drew down 

Those words of lightning on her page. 
As for myself— to come at last, 

To the odd way in which I write — 
Having employed these few months past 

Chiefly in travelling, day and night, 
I've got into the easy mode, 
You see, of rhyming on the road- 
Making a way-bill of my pages, 
Counting my stanzas by my stages — 
'Twixt la\s and re-lays no time lost— 
In short, in two words, writing post. 
My verses, I suspect, not ill 
Resembling the crazed vehicle 
(An old caltche, for which a villain 
Charged me some twenty Naps at Milan) 
In which I wrote them — patch d-up things, 
On weak, but rather easy, springs, 
Jingling along, with little in 'em, 

And (where the road is not so rough, 
Or deep, or lofty, as to spin 'em, 

Down precipices) safe enough. — 
Too ready to take fire, I own, 
And then, too, nearest a break-down ; 
But, for my comfort, hung so low, 
I have n't, in falling, far to go. — 
With all this, light, and swift, and airy, 

And carrying (which is best of all) 
But little for the Doganieri 2 

Of the Reviews to overhaul. 



RHYMES ON THE ROAD. 



EXTRACT L 

Geneva. 
View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura? — Anxious 
to reach it before the Sun went down. — Obliged to 
proceed on Foot. — Alps. — Mont Blanc. — Effect of 
the Scene. 

'T was late — the sun had almost shone 
His last and best, when I ran on, 



tpsum, int stina extrahens, immaoiter torqueret, tunc enim 
flovem carmina cecinit, etc. — Bartholin, de causis con- 
tempt, mart. 

1 Made of paper, twisted up like a fan or feather. 

2 Custom-house officers. 3 Between Vattay and Gex. 



Anxious to reach that splendid view 
Before the day-beams quite withdrew ; 
And feeling as all feel, on first 

Approaching scenes where, they are told 
Such glories on their eyes shall burst 

As youthful bards in dreams behold 
'T was distant yet, and, as I ran, 

Full often was my wistful gaze 
Turn'd to the sun, who now began 
To call in all his out-post rays, 
And form a denser march of light, 
Such as beseems a hero's flight. 
Oh, how I wish'd for Joshua's power, 
To stay the brightness of that hour ! 
But no — the sun still less became, 

Diminish'd to a speck, as splendid 
And small as were those tongues of flame. 

That on th' Apostles' heads descended ! 

'T was at this instant — while there glow'd 

This last, intensest gleam of light — 
Suddenly, through the opening road, 

The valley burst upon my sight ! 
That glorious valley, with its lake, 

And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling, 
Mighty, and pure, and fit to make 

The ramparts of a Godhead's dwelling • 

I stood entrane'd and mute — as they 

Of Israel think th' assembled world 
Will stand upon that awful day, 

When the Ark's Light, aloft unfurl'd, 
Among the opening clouds shall shine, 
Divinity's own radiant sign ! 
Mighty Mo xt Blanc ! thou wert to me, 

That minute, with thy brow in heaven, 
As sure a sign of Deity 

As e'er to mortal gaze was given. 
Nor ever, were I destined yet 

To live my life twice o'er again, 
Can I the deep-felt awe forget — 

The ecstasy that thrill'd methen ! 

'T was all that consciousness of power, 
And life, beyond this mortal hour, — 
Those mountings of the soul within 
At thoughts of Heaven — as birds begin 
By instinct in the cage to rise, 
When near their time for change of skies- 
Th?t proud assurance of our claim 

To rank among the Sons of Light, 
Mingled with shame — oh, bitter shame '- 

At having risk'd that splendid right, 
For aught that vanh, through ill its range 
Of glories, offers in exchange ! 
'T was all this, at the instant brought, 
Like breaking sunshine, o'er my thought— 
'Twas all this, kindled to a glow 

Of sacred zeal, which, could it shine 
Thus purely ever — man might grow, 

Even upon earth, a thing divine, 
And be once more the creature made 

To walk unstain'd the Elysian shade ! 

No — never shall I lose the trace 
Of what I've felt in this bright place. 



RHYMES ON THE ROAD. 



And should my spirit's hope grow weak — 

Should I, O God ! e'er doubt thy power, 
This mighty scene again I'll seek, 

At the same calm and glowing hour; 
And here, at the sublimest shrine 

That Nature ever rear'd to Thee, 
Rekindle all that hope divine, 

And feel my immortality ! 



EXTRACT II. 



Venice. 



The Fall of Venice not to be lamented. — Former Glory. 
— Expedition against Constantinople. — Giustinia- 
nis. — Republic. — Characteristics of the old Govern- 
ment. — Golden Book. — Brazen Mouths. — Spies. — 
Dungeons. — Present Desolation. 

Mourn not for Venice — let her rest 
In ruin, 'mong those States unbless'd, 
Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride, 
Where'er they trampled, Freedom died. 
No — let us keep our tears for them, 

Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been 
Not from a blood-stain'd diadem, 

Like that which deck'd this ocean-queen, 
But from high daring in the cause 

Of human Rights — the only good 
And blessed strife, in which man draws 

His powerful sword on land or flood. 

Mourn not for Venice — though her fall 

Be awful, as if Ocean's wave 
Swept o'er her — she deserves it all, 

And Justice triumphs o'er her grave. 
Thus perish every King and State 

That run the guilty race she ran, 
Strong but in fear, and only great 

By outrage against God and man ! 

True, her high spirit is at rest, 

And all those days of glory gone, 
When the world's waters, east and west, 

Beneath her white-wing' d commerce shone ; 
When, with her countless barks she went 

To meet the Orient Empire's might, 1 
And the Giustinianis sent 

Their hundred heroes to that fight. 2 

Vanish'd are all her pomps, 'tis true, 
But mourn them not — for, vanish'd, too, 

(Thanks to that Power, who, soon or late, 

Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,) 

Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud, 
The chams, the rapine, and the blood, 

That fill'd each spot, at home, abroad, 
Where the Republic's standard stood ! 

Desolate Venice ! when I track 

Thy haughty course through centuries back, — 

1 Under the Doge Michaeli, in 1171. 

2 " La famille entiere des .lustiniani, l'une des plus illus- 
rres de Venise, voulut marcher toute entieie dans cette ex- 
pedition ; elle fournit cent combattans; e'etait renouveler 
I'exemple d'une illustre famille de Rjine ; le ineme malheur 
les attendait." — Historic de Venise par Daru. 



Thy ruthless power, obeyed but curs'd,— 

The stern machinery of thy State, 
Which hatred would, like steam, have burst, 

Had stronger fear not chill'd even hate ; 
Thy perfidy, still worse than aught 
Thy own unblushing Sarpi 1 taught, — 
Thy friendship, which, o'er all beneath 
Its shadow, rain'd down dews of death, — 2 
Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold, 

Shut against humble Virtue's name, 3 
But open'd wide for slaves who sold 

Their native land to thee and shame, — * 
Thy all-pervading host of spies, 

Watching o'er every glance and breath, 
Till men look'd in each other's eyes, 

To read their chance of life or death,— 
Thy laws, that made a mart of blood, 

And legalized the assassin's knife, — 5 
Thy sunless cells beneath the flood, 

And racks, and leads 6 that burn out life ;— 
When I review all this, and see 

What thou art sunk and crush'd to now ; 
Each harpy maxim, hatch'd by thee, 

Return' d to roost on thy own brow, — 
Thy nobles towering once aloft, 

Now sunk in chains — in chains, that have 
Not even that borrow'd grace, which oft 

The master's fame sheds o'er the slave, 
But are as mean as e'er were given 
To stiff-neck'd Pride, by angry Heaven — 
I feel the moral vengeance sweet, 
And, smiling o'er the wreck, repeat — 
" Thus perish every King and State, 

That treads the steps which Venice trod ; 
Strong but in fear, and only great 

By outrage against man and God !" 



EXTRACT III 

Venice. 

L d B 's Memoirs, Written by himself — Re* 

flections, when about to read them. 
Let me, a moment — ere with fear and hope 
Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope — 



1 The celebrated Fra Paolo. The collection of maxims 
which this bold monk drew up at the request of the Venetian 
Government, for the guidance of the Secret Inquisition of 
State, are so atrocious as to seem rather an over-charged 
satire upon despotism, than a system of policy seriously in. 
culcated, and but too readily and constantly pursued. 

2 Conduct of Venice towards her allies and dependen- 
cies, particularly to unfortunate Padua. — Fate of Francesco 
Carrara, for which see Daru, vol. ii. p. 141. 

3 " A l'exception des trente citadins admis au grand con- 
seil pendant la guerre de Chiozzi, il n'est pas arrive une 
suele fois que les talens ou les services aient paru a cette 
noblesse orgueilleuse des titres sufrisans pour s'asseoir avec 

le." — Daru. 

4 Among those admitted to the honour of being inscribed 
the JAbro d'Oro were some families of Brescia, Treviso 

and other places, whose only claim to that distinction was 
the zeal with which they prosirated themselves and theii 
country at the feet of the republic. 

5 By the infamous "tatn'es of the State Inquisition, not 
only was assassinatioi .^cognized as a regular mode of 
punishment, but this secret power over life was delegated to 
their minions at a distance, with nearly as much facility as 
a licence is given under the game laws of England. The 
only restriction seems to have been the necessity of applying 
for n new certificate, after every individual exercise of the 
power. 

6 "Les prisons des plombs; e'est-a-diro ces fournaisea 



204 



MOORE'S WORIiS. 



As one, in fairy tale, to whom the key 

Of some enchanter's secret halls is given, 
Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly, 

If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven — 
Let me, a moment, think what thousands live 
O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give, 
Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow 
Over these precious leaves, as I do now. 
How all who know — and where is he unknown ? 
To what far region have his songs not flown, 
Like Psaphon's birds, 1 speaking their master's name, 
In every language syllabled by Fame ? — 
How all, who 've felt the various spells combined 
Within the circle of that splendid mind, 
Like powers, derived from many a star, and met 
Together in some wondrous amulet, 
Would burn to know when first the light awoke 
In his young soul, — and if the gleams that broke 
From that Aurora of his genius, raised 
More bliss or pain in those on whom they blazed — 
Would love to trace the unfolding of that power, 
Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour ; 
And feel, in watching o'er its first advance, 

As did the Egyptian traveller, 2 when he stood 
By the young Nile, and fathom'd with his lance 

The first small fountains of that mighty flood. 

They, too, who 'mid the scornful thoughts that dwell 

In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams, 
As if the Star of Bitterness which fell 

On earth of old, and touch'd them with its beams, 
Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate, 
From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate ; 
And which, even now, struck as it is with blight, 
Comes out, at times, in love's own native light — 
How gladly all, who 've watch'd these struggling rays 
Of a bright, ruin'd spirit through his lays, 
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips, 

What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven 
That noble nature into cold eclipse — 

Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in Heaven, 
And born, not only to surprise, but cheer 
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere, 
Is now so quench'd, that, of its grandeur, lasts 
Nought but the wide cold shadow which it casts ! 

Eventful volume ! whatsoe'er the change 

Of scene and clime — the adventures, bold and strange: 

The griefs — the frailties, but too frankly told — 

The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold ; 

If truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks 

His virtues as his failings — we shall find 
The record there of friendships, held like rocks, 

And enmities, like sun-touch'd snow, resign'd — 
Of fealty, cherish'd without change or chill, 
In those who served him young, and serve him still — 
Of generous aid, given with that noiseless art 
Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart — 
Of acts — but, no — not from himself must aught 
Of the bright features of his life be sought. 



ardentcs qu'on avait distributes en petites cellules sous les 
terrasses qui couvrent le palais." 

1 Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, 
taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let 
them fly away in various directions: whence the proverb, 
" Psnphonis aves." 

2 Bruce. 



While they who court the world, like Milton s 

cloud, 1 
" Turn forth their silver lining" on the crowd, 
This gifted Being wraps himself in night, 

And, keeping all that softens, and adorns, 
And gilds his social nature, hid from sight, 

Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns. 



EXTRACT IV. 

Venice. 
The English to be met with every where. — Alps and 
Threadneedle-street. — The Simplon and the Stocks. 
— Rage for travelling. — Blue Stockings among the 
Wahabees. — Parasols and Pyramids. — Mrs. Hop- 
kins and the Wall of China. 

And is there then no earthly place 
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, 

Without some cursed, round English face, 
Popping up near, to break the vision ! 

'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, 
Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet ; 

Nor highest Alps nor Apennines 

Are sacred from Threadneedle-street ! 

If up the Simplon's path we wind, 
Fancying we leave this world behind, 
Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear 
As — " Baddish news from 'Change, my dear — 

"The Funds — (phew, curse this ugly hill !) 
Are lowering fast — (what ! higher still ?) — 
And — (zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven !)— 
Will soon be down to sixty-seven." 

Go where we may — rest where we will, 
Eternal London haunts us still. 
The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch — 
And scarce a pin's head difference which 
Mixes, though even to Greece we run, 
With every rill from Helicon ! 
And, if this rage for travelling lasts, 
If Cockneys, of all sects and castes, 
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, 
TVi'ZZ leave their puddings and coal fires, 
To gape at things in foreign lands 
No soul among them understands — 
If Blues desert their coteries, 
To show off 'mong the Wahabees — 
If neither sex nor age controls, 

Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids 
Young ladies, with pink parasols, 

To glide among the Pyramids — 2 
Why, then, farewell all hope to find 
A spot that 's free from London-kind ! 
Who knows, if to the West we roam, 
But we may find some Blue "at home" 

Among the Blacks of Carolina — 
Or, flying to the Eastward, see 



; Did a sable cloud 



Turn forth her silver lining on the night." 

Comus. 

2 It was pink spencers, I believe, that the imagination 
of the French traveller conjured up. 



RHYMES ON THE ROAD. 



205 



Some Mrs. Hopkins, taking tea 
And toast upon the Wall of China ! 



EXTRACT V. 

Florence. 
No — 't is not the region where love 's to be found — 
They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances 
that rove, 
They have language a Sappho's own lip might re- 
sound, 
When she warbled her best — but they've nothing 
like Love. 

Nor is it that sentiment only they want, 

Which Heaven for the pure and the tranquil hath 
made — 
Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant, 

Which sweetens seclusion, and smiles in the shade ; 

That feeling, which, after long years are gone by, 
Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth, 

Where, even though the flush of the colours may fly, 
The features still live in their first smiling truth ; 

That union, where all that in Woman is kind, 
With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers, 

Grow wreathed into one — like the column, combined 
Of the strength of the shaft and the capital's flowers. 

Of this — bear ye witness, ye wives, every where, 
By the Arno, the Po, by all Italy's streams — 

Of this heart-wedded love, so delicious to share, 
Not a husband hath even one glimpse in his dreams. 

But it is not this, only — born, full of the light 

Of a sun, from whose fount the luxuriant festoons 

Of Miese beautiful valleys drink lustre so bright, 
That, beside him, our suns of the north are but 
moons ! 

We mifht fancy, at least, like their climate they 
burn'd, 
And that Love, though unused, in this region of 
spring, 
To be thus to a tame Household Deity turn'd, 
Would yet be all soul, when abroad on the wing. 

And there may he, there are those explosions of heart, 
Which burst, when the senses have first caught the 
flame; 

Such fits of the blood as those climates impart, 
Where Love is a sun-stroke that maddens the frame. 

But that Passion, which springs in the depth of the soul, 
Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source 

Of some mountainous rivulet, destined to roll 
As a torrent, ere long, losing peace in its course — 

A course, to which Modesty's struggle but lends 
A more head-long descent, without chance of recal; 

But which Modesty, even to the last edge attends, 
And, at length, throws a halo of tears round its fall ! 

This exquisite Passion — ay, exquisite, even 
In the ruin its madness too often hath made, 

As it keeps, even then, a bright trace of the heaven, 
The heaven of Virtue, from which it has stray' d — 



This entireness of love, which can only be found 
Where Woman, like something that's holy, watch'd 
over, 

And fenced, from her childhood, with purity rounu, 
Comes, body and soul, fresh as Spring, to a lover 

Where not an eye answers, where not a hand presses^ 
Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move ; 

And the Senses, asleep in their sacred recesses, 
Can only be reach'd through the Temple of Love 

This perfection of Passion — how can it be found, 
Where the mysteries Nature hath hung round the 
tie 

By which souls are together attracted and bound, 
Are laid open, for ever, to heart, ear, and eye — 

Where nought of those innocent doubts can exist, 
That ignorance, even than knowledge more bright, 

Which circles the young, like the morn's sunny mist, 
And curtains them round in their own native light — 

Where Experience leaves nothing for Love to reveal, 
Or for Fancy, in visions, to gleam o'er the thought, 

But the truths which, alone, we would die to conceal 
From the maiden's young heart, are the only ones 
taught — 

Oh no — 'tis not here, howsoever we're given, 
Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray, 

Or adore, like Saba?ans, each light of Love's heaven, 
Here is not the region to fix or to stray ; 

For, faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross, 
Without honour to guard, or reserve to restrain, 

What have they a husband can mourn as a loss ? — 
What have they a lover can prize as a gain ? 



EXTRACT VI. 



Rome. 



Reflections on reading De CerceaxCs Account of the 
Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1347. — The Meeting oj 
the Conspirators on the night of the 19th of May. — 
Their Procession in the Morninp to the Capitol — 
Rienzi's Speech. 

'T was a proud moment — even to hear the words 

Of Truth and Freedom 'mid these temples breathed, 
And see, once more, the Forum shine with swords*, 

In the Republic's sacred name unsheathed — 
That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day 

For his dear Rome, must to a Roman be — 
Short as it was— -worth ages pass'd away 

In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery. 

'T was on a night of May — beneath that mooa 
Which had, through many an age, seen Time untune 
The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell 
From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell — 
The sound of the church clock, 1 near Adrian's Tomh, 
Summon'd the warriors, who had risen for Rome, 



1 It is not easy to discover what church is meant by De 
Cerceau here : — " II fit crier dans les rues de Rome, a son da 
trompe, que chacun eut a se trouver, sans armes, la nuit du 
lendemain, dixneuvieme, dans l'eglise du chateau de Saint 
Ange au son de la cloche, afin de pourvoir au Bon Etat '- 



206 



MOORE'S WORKS 



To meet unarm'd, with nought to watch them there 
But God's own Eye, and pass the night in prayer. 
Holy beginning of a holy cause, 
When heroes, girt for Freedom's combat, pause 
Before high Heaven, and, humble in their might, 
Call down its blessing on that awful fight. 

At dawn, in arms, went forth the patriot band, 
And, as the breeze, fresh from the Tiber, fann'd 
Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see 

The palm-tree there, the sword, the keys of Hea- 
ven — l 
Types of the justice, peace, and liberty, 

That were to bless them when their chains were 
riven. 
On to the Capitol the pageant moved, 

While many a Shade of other times, that still 
Around that grave of grandeur sighing roved, 

Hung o'er their footsteps up the Sacred Hill, 
And heard its mournful echoes, as the last 
High-minded heirs of the Republic pass'd. 
'Twas then that thou, their Tribune (name which 

brought 
Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,) 
Didst, from a spirit Rome in vain shall seek 
To call up in her sons again, thus speak : — 

"Romans! look round you — on this sacred place 

There once stood shrines, and gods, and godlike 
men — • 
What see you now ? what solitary trace 

Is left of all that made Rome's glory then ? 
The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft 

Even of its name — and nothing now remains 
But the deep memory of that glory, left 

To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains ! 
But shall this be ? — our sun and sky the same, 

Treading the very soil our fathers trode, 
What withering curse hath fallen on soul and frame, 

What visitation hath there come from God, 
To blast our strength and rot us into slaves, 
Here, on our great forefathers' glorious graves ? 
It cannot be — rise up, ye Mighty Dead, 

If we, the living, are too weak to crush 
These tyrant priests, that o'er your empire tread, 

Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush !" 

K Happy Palmyra ! in thy desert domes, 

Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss ; 
And thou, whose pillars are but silent homes 

For the stork's brood, superb Persepolis ! 
Thrice happy both that your extinguish'd race 
Have left no embers- -no half-living trace — 
No slaves, to crawl around the once-proud spot, 
Till past renown in present shame 's forgot ; 
While Rome, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks, 

If lone and lifeless through a desert hurl'd, 
Would wear more true magnificence than decks 

The assembled thrones of all the existing world — 
Rome, Rome alone, is haunted, stain'd, and cursed, 

Through every spot her princely Tiber laves, 
By living human things — the deadliest, worst, 

That earth engenders — tyrants and their slaves ! 



For a description of these banners, see Rotes. 



And we 1 — oh shame!— we, wno have ponder'd o*ef 

The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay ; 
Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore. 

Tracking our country's glories all the way — 
Even we have tamely, basely kiss'd the ground 

Before that Papal Power, that Ghost of Her, 
The World's Imperial Mistress — sitting, crown'd 

And ghastly, on her mouldering sepulchre ! 2 
But this is past — too long have lordly priests 

And priestly lords led us, with all our pride 
Withering about us— -like devoted beasts, 
Dragg'd to the shrine, with faded garlands tied. 
'T is o'er — the dawn of our deliverance breaks ! 
Up from his sleep of centuries awakes 
The Genius of the Old Republic, free 
As first he stood, in chainless majesty, 
And sends his voice through ages yet to come, 
Proclaiming Rome, Rome, Rome, Eternal Rome ? 



EXTRACT VII. 

Rome. 

Mary Magdalen. — Her Story. — Numerous Pictures 
of her. — Correggio. — Guido. — Raphael, etc. — Ca~ 
nova's two exquisite Statues. — The Somariva 
Magdalen — Chantrey's Admiration of Cariova's 
Works. 

No wonder, Mary, that thy story 

Touches all hearts — for there we see 
The soul's corruption and its glory, 

Its death and life, combined in thee. 
From the first moment, when we find 

Thy spirit, haunted by a swarm 
Of dark desires, which had inshrined 

Themselves, like demons, in thy form, 
Till when, by touch of Heaven set free, 

Thou earnest, with those bright locks of gold, 
(So oft the gaze of Bethany,) 

And, covering in their precious fold 
Thy Saviour's feet, didst shed such tears 
As paid, each drop, the sins of years ! — 
Thence on, through all thy course of love 

To him, thy Heavenly Master, — Kim 
Whose bitter death-cup from above, 

Had yet this sweetening round the brim, 
That woman's faith and love stood fast 
And fearless by him to the last ! 
Till — bless'd reward for truth like thine ! — 

Thou Wert, of all, the chosen one, 
Before whose eyes that Face Divine, 

When risen from the dead, first shone, 
That thou mightst see how, like a cloud, 
Had pass'd away its mortal shroud, 



1 The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning " Spirto gen- 
til," is supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have heen ad 
dressed to Rienzi; but there is much more evidence of ita 
having been written, as Ginguene asserts, to the young Ste- 
phen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome. 
That Petrarch, however, was filled with high and patriotic 
hopes by the first measures of this extraordinary man, ap- 
pears from one of his letters, quoted by De Cerceiu, where 
he says: "Pour tout dire, en un mot, j'atteste, non comme 
lecteur, mais comme temoin oculaire, qu'il nous a ramene 
la justice, la paix, la bonne foi, la securile, et toutes lea 
autres vestiges de l'age d'or." 

2 See Note. 



RHYMES ON THE ROAD. 



20? 



And make that bright revealment known 
To hearts less trusting than thy own — 
All is affecting, cheering, grand ; 

The kindliest record ever given, 
Even under God's own kindly hand, 

Of what Repentance wins from Heaven ! 

No wonder, Mary, that thy face, 

In all its touching light of tears, 
Should meet us in each holy place, 

Where man before his God appears, 
Hopeless — were he not taught to see 
All hope in Him who pardon'd thee ! 
No wonder that the painter's skill 

Should oft have triumph'd in the power 
Of keeping thee most lovely still 

Throughout thy sorrow's bitterest hour — 
That soft Correggio should diffuse 

His melting shadows round thy form ; 
That Guido's pale unearthly hues 

Should, in portraying thee, grow warm : 
That all — from the ideal, grand, 
Inimitable Roman hand, 
Down to the small, enamelling to'ich 

Of smooth Carlino — should delight 
In picturing her who "loved so much," 

And was, in spite of sin, so bright ! 

But, Mary, 'mong the best essays 

Of Genius and of Art to raise 

A semblance of those weeping eyes — 

A vision, worthy of the sphere 
Thy faith hath given thee in the skies, 

And in the hearts of all men here, 
Not one hath equall'd, hath come nigh 

Canova's fancy ; oh, not one 
Hath made thee feel, and live, and die 

In tears away, as he hath done, 
In those bright images, more bright 
With true expression's breathing light 
Than ever yet beneath the stroke 
Of chisel into life awoke ! 
The one, 1 pourtraying what thou wert 

In thy first grief, while yet the flower 
Of those young beauties was unhurt 

By sorrow's slow consuming power, 
And mingling earth's luxurious grace 

With Heaven's subliming thoughts so well, 
We gaze, and know not in which place 

Such beauty most was form'd to dwell !— 
The other, as thou look'dst when years 
Of fasting, penitence, and tears 
Had worn thee down — and ne'er did Art 

With half such mental power express 
The ruin which a breaking heart 

Spreads, by degrees, o'er loveliness ! 
Those wasted arms, that keep the trace, 
Even now, of all their youthful grace — 
Those tresses, of thy charms the last 
Whose pride forsook thee, wildly cast — 



Those features, even in fading worth 
The freshest smiles to others given, 

And those sunk eyes, that see not earth, 
But whose last looks are full of Heaven ! 

Wonderful artist ! praise like mine — 

Though springing from a soul that feels 
Deep worship of those works divine, 

Where Genius all his light reveals — 
Is little to the words that came 
From him, thy peer in art and fame, 
Whom I have known, by day, by night, 
Hang o'er thy marble with delight, 
And, while his lingering hand would steal 

O'er every grace the taper's rays, 1 
Give thee, with all the generous zeal 
Such master-spirits only feel, 

That best of fame — a rival's praise ! 



1 This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was 
not. yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which 
Beems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that 
expression, of the intensest kind, is fully within the sphere 
of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the 
possession of the Count Somariva, at Paris. 



EXTRACT VIII. 

Les Chavmettes. 
A Visit to the House where Rousseau lived with Ma- 
dame de Warens. — Their Menage. — Its Gross- 
ness. — Claude Anet. — Reverence with which the 
Spot is now visited. — Absurdity of this hlivd Devo- 
tion to Fame. — Feelings excited by the Beauty and 
Seclusion of the Scene. — Disturbed by its Associa- 
tions with Rousseau's History. — Impostures of Men 
of Genius. — Their Power of mimicking all the best 
Feelings, Love, Independence, etc. 

Strange power of Genius, that can throw 
O'er all that 's vicious, weak, and low, 
Such magic lights, such rainbow dyes, 
As dazzle even the steadiest eyes ! 

About a century since, or near, 
A middle-aged Madame lived here, 
With character, even worse than most 
Such middle-aged Madames can boast. 
Her footman was — to gloss it over 
With the most gentle term — her lover; 
Nor yet so jealous of the truth 

And charms of this impartial fair, 
As to deny a pauper youth, 

Who join'd their snug menage, his share 
And there they lived, this precious three, 

With just as little sense or notion 
Of what the world calls decency, 

As hath the sea-calf in the ocean. 
And, doubtless, 'mong the grave, and good, 
And gentle of their neighbourhood, 
If known at all, they were but known 

As strange, low people, low and bad— 
Bladame, herself, to footmen prone, 

And her young pauper, all but mad. 
Who could have thought this very spot 

Would, one day, be a sort of shrine, 
Where — all its grosser taints forgot, 

Or gilt by Fancy till they shine — 
Pilgrims would meet, from many a shore; 
To trace each mouldering chamber o'er ; 



1 Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Yin 
citrice, by the light of a small candle. 



208 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Young bards to dream of virtuous fame, 
Young maids to lisp De Waren's name, 
And mellower spinsters — of an age 
Licensed to read Jean Jacques's page — 
To picture all those blissful hours 
He pass'd in these sequester'd bowers, 
With his dear 3Iaman and his flowers ! 
Spinsters, who — if, from glowing heart 

Or erring head, some living maid 
Had wander'd even the thousandth part 

Of what this worthy Maman stray'd — 
Would bridle up their virtuous chins 
In horror at her sin of sins, 
And — could their chaste eyes kill with flashes- 
Frown the fair culprit into ashes ! 

T is too absurd — 't is weakness, shame, 
This low prostration before Fame — 
This casting down, beneath the car 
Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are, 
Life's purest, holiest decencies, 
To be career'd o'er as they please. 
No — let triumphant Genius have 
All that his loftiest wish can crave. 
If he be worshipp'd, let it be 

For attributes, his noblest, first — 
Not with that base idolatry, 

Which sanctifies his last and worst. 

I may be cold — may want that glow 

Of high romance, which bards should know; 

That holy homage, which is felt 

In treading where the great have dwelt — 

This reverence, whatsoe'er it be, 

I fear, I feel, I have it not, 
For here, at this still hour, to me 

The charms of this delightful spot — 
Its calm seclusion from the throng, 

From all the heart would fain forget — 
This narrow valley, and the song 

Of its small murmuring rivulet — 
The flitting to and fro of birds, 

Tranquil and tame as they were once 
In Eden, ere the startling words 

Of man disturb'd their orisons ! — 
Those little, shadowy paths, that wind 
Up the hill side, with fruit-trees lined, 
And lighted only by the breaks 
The gay wind in the foliage makes, 
Or vistas here and there, that ope 

Through weeping willows, like the snatches 
Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope, 

Even through the shade of sadness, catches !- 
All this, which — could I once but lose 

The memory of those vulgar ties, 
Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues 

Of Genius can no more disguise, 
Than the sun's beams can do away 
The filth of fens o'er which they play — 
This scene, which would have fill'd my heart 

With thoughts of all that happiest is — 



Of Love, where self hath only part, 

As echoing back another's bliss — 
Of solitude, secure and sweet, 
Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet ; 
Which, while it shelters, never chills 

Our sympathies with human woe, 
But keeps them, like sequester'd rills, 

Purer and fresher in their flow — 
Of happy days, that share their beams 

'T wixt quiet mirth and wise employ — 
Of tranquil nights, that give in dreams 

The moonlight of the morning's joy ! — 
All this my heart could dwell on here, 
But for those hateful memories near, 
Those sordid truths, that cross the track 
Of each sweet thought, and drive them back 
Full into all the mire, and strife, 
And vanities of that man's life, 
Who, more than all that e'er have glow'd 

With Fancy's flame (and it was his 
If ever given to mortal) showed 

What an impostor Genius is — 
How with that strong, mimetic art 

Which is its life, and soul, it takes 
All shapes of thought, all hues of heart, 

Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes — 
How like a gem its light may smile 

O'er the dark path, by mortals trod, 
Itself as mean a worm, the while, 

As crawls along the sullying sod — 
What sensibility may fall 

From its false lip, what plans to bless, 
While home, friends, kindred, country, all, 

Lie waste beneath its selfishness — 
How, with the pencil hardly dry 

From colouring up such scenes of love 
And beauty, as make j'oung hearts sigh. 

And dream, and think through Heaven they row. 
They, who can thus describe and move, 

The very workers of these charms, 
Nor seek, nor ask a Heaven above 

Some Maman's or Theresa's arms ! 

How all, in short, that makes the boast 
Of their false tongues, they want the most , 
And while, with Freedom on their lips, 

Sounding her timbrels, to set free 
This bright world, labouring in the eclipse 

Of priestcraft and of slavery, 
They may, themselves, be slaves as low 

As ever lord or patron made, 
To blossom in his smile, or grow, 

Like stunted brushwood, in his shade ' 

Out on the craft — I'd rather be 

One of those hinds that round me tread, 
With just enough of sense to see 

The noon-day sun that 's o'er my head, 
Than thus, with high-built genius cursed, 

That hath no heart for its foundation, 
Be all, at once, that 's brightest — worst — 

Sublimest — meanest in creation ! 



RHYMES ON THE ROAD 



209 



NOTES. 



Page 203, line 57. 

Thy perfidy, still worse I hail aught 
Thy own unblushing Sarpi taught. 
Tkk spirit in which these maxims of Father Paul 
are written, may be sufficiently judged from the in- 
structions which he gives for the management of the 
Venetian colonies ind provinces. Of the former he 
soys : — " 11 faut les traiter comme des animaux fero- 
ces, les rogner les dents, et les griffes, les humilier 
souvent, surtout leur oter les occasions de s'aguemr. 
Du pain et le baton, voila ce qu'il leur faut ; gardons 
l'humanite pour une meilleure occasion." 

For the treatment of the provinces he advises thus : 
" Tendre a depouiller les villes de leurs privileges, 
faire que les habitans s'appauvrissent, et que leurs 
biens soient achetes par les Venitiens. Ceux qui, 
dans les conseils municipaux, se montreront ou plus 
audacieux ou plus devoues aux interets de la popula- 
tion, il faut les perdre ou les gagner a quelque prix 
que ce soit : enfin, sHl se trouve dans les provinces 
quelques chefs de parti, il faut les exterminer sous un 
pretexte quelconque, mais en evitant de rccourir a la 
justice ordinaire. Que le poison fasse V office du hour* 
reau, cela est moins odieux et beaucoup plus profitable." 

Page 203, note. 

By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition, etc. 

M. Daru has given an abstract of these Statutes 
from a manuscript in the Bibliotheque du Roi, and it 
is hardly credible that such a system of treachery 
and cruelty should ever have been established by any 
government, or submitted to, for an instant, by any 
people. Among various precautions against the in 
trigues of their own nobles, we find the following: — 
" Pour persuader aux etrangers qu'il etait difficile et 
dangereux d'entretenir quelque intrigue secrete avec 
les nobles Venitiens, on imagina de faire avertir mys- 
terieusement le Nonce du Pape (afin que les autres 
ministres en fussent informes) que l'lnquisition avait 
autorise les patriciens a poignarder quiconque essaie- 
rait de tenter leur fidelite. Mais craignant que les 
ambassadeurs ne pretassent foi difficilement a une 
deliberation, qui en effet n'existait pas, l'lnquisition 
voulait prouver qu'elle en etait capable. Elle or- 
donna des recherches pour decouvrir s'il n'y avait 
pas dans Venise quelque exile audessus du commun, 
qui eut rompu son ban ; ensuite un des patriciens qui 
etaient aux gages du tribunal, recut la mission d'as- 
sassiner ce mallieureux, et l'ordre de s'en vanter, en 
disant qu'il s'etait porte a cet acte, parce que ce banni 
etait l'agent d'un ministre etranger, et avait cherche 
a le corrompre." — " Remarquons," adds M. Daru, 
" que ceci n'est pas une simple anecdote ; c'est une 
mission projetee, deliberee, ecrite d'avance ; une regie 
2 D 



de conduite tracee par des hommes graves, a leurs 
successeurs, et consignee dans des statuts." 

The cases in which assassination is ordered by 
these statutes are as follow : — 

" Un ouvrier de l'arsenal, un chef ae ce qu'on ap- 
pelle parmi les marins le menstrance, passait-il au 
service d'une puissance etrangere, il fallait le faire 
assassiner, surtout si c'etait un homme repute brave 
et habile dans sa profession." — (Art. 3, des Statuts.) 

" Avait-il commis quelque action qu'on ne jugait 
pas a propos de punir juridiquement, on devait le 
faire empoisonner." — (Art. 14.) 

" Un artisan passait-il a l'etranger en v exportant 
quelque procede de l'industrie nationale : c'etait en- 
core un crime capital, que la loi inconnue ordonnait 
de punir par un assassinat." — (Art. 26.) 

The facility with which they got rid of their Duke 
of Bedfords, Lord Fitz Williams, etc. was admirable , 
it was thus : — 

" Le patricien qui se permettait la moindre propos 
contre le gouvernement, etait admonete deux fois, et 
a la troisieme noye comme mcorrigible. — (Art. 39.) 

Page 205, line 77. 

Reflexions on rending, etc. 

The " Conjuration de Nicolas Gabrini, dit de Ri- 

enzi," by the Jesuit de Cerceau, is chiefly taken from 

the much more authentic work of Fortifiocca on the 

same subject. Rienzi was the son of a laundress. 

Page 205, line 9. 
Their gilded gonfalons. 
" L.es gentilshommes conjures portaient devant lui 
trois etendarts. Nicolas Guallato, surnomme le bon 
diseur, portait le premier, qui etait de couleur rouge, 
et plus grand que les autres. On y voyait des carac- 
teres d'or avec une femme assize sur deux lions, 
tenant d'une main le globe du monde, et de l'autre 
une Palme pour representer la ville de Rome. 
C'etait le Gonfalon de la Liberie. Le Second, a 
fonds blanc, avec un St. Paul tenant de la droite une 
Epee nue et de la gauche la couronne de Justice, etait 
porte par Etienne Magnacuccia, notaire apostolique. 
Dans le troisieme, St. Pierre avait en main les clefs 
de la Concorde et de la Paix. Tout cela insinuait le 
dessein de Rienzi, qui etait de retablir la liberte, la 
justioe, et la paix." — Du Cerceau, liv. 2. 

Page 206, line 63. 

That Ghost of Her, 
The world's Imperial Mistress. 
This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words 
are, as near as I can recollect : — " For what is the 
Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman Empire 
sitting crowned on the grave thereof?" 



FABLES FOR THE **** *******% 



Eripe. 



tu Regibus alas 

Virgil. Qeorg. lib. iv. 

clip the wings 



Of theso high-flying, arbitrary Kings. 

Dryderi's Translation. 



FABLE I. 

THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE. 

A Dream. 
T've had a dream that bodes no good 
Unto the Holy Brotherhood. 
I may be wrong, but I confess — 

As far as it is right or lawful 
For one, no conjuror, to guers — 

It seems to me extremely awful. 

Methought, upon the Neva's flood 

A beautiful Ice Palace stood ; 

A dome of frost-work, on the plan 

Of that once built by Empress Anne, 1 

Which shone by moonlight — as the tale is — 

Like an aurora borealis. 

In this said palace — furnish'd all 

And lighted as the best on land are — 
I dream'd there was a splendid ball, 

Given by the Emperor Alexander, 
To entertain, with all due zeal, 

Those holy gentlemen who 've shown a 
Regard so kind for Europe's weal, 

At Troppau. Laybach, and Verona. 

The thought was happy, and designed 
To hint how thus the human mind 
May — like the stream imprison'd there — 
Be check' d and chill' d till it can bear 
The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet 
E'er yet be-praised, to dance upon it. 

And all were pleased, and cold, and stately, 

Shivering in grand illumination — 
Admired the superstructure greatly, 

Nor gave one thought to the foundation. 
Much too the Czar himself exulted, 

To all plebeian fears a stranger, 
As Madame Krudener, when consulted, 

Had pledged her word there was no danger. 
So, on he caper'd, fearless quite, 

TMnking himself extremely clever, 
And waltz'd away with all his might, 

As if the frost would last for ever. 



1 "It is well known that the Empress Anne built a palace 
of ice, on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in 
length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect." — 
Pinkerton. 



Just fancy how a bard like me, 

Who reverence monarchs, must have tremblea 
To see that goodly company 

At such a ticklish sport assembled. 

Nor were the fears, that thus astounded 

My loyal soul, at all unfounded ; 

For, lo ! ere long, those walls so massy 

Were seized with an ill-omen'd dripping, 
And o'er the floors, now growing glassy, 

Their Holinesses took to slipping. 
The Czar, half through a Polonaise, 

Could scarce get on for downright stumbling, 
And Prussia, though to slippery ways 

So used, was cursedly near tumbling. 

Yet still 't was who could stamp the floor most, 
Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost. 
And now, to an Italian air, 

This precious brace would hand in hand go ; 
Now — while old ****** from his chair, 
Intreated them his toes to spare — 

Call'd loudly out for a fandango. 

And a fandango, 'faith, they had, 

At which they all set to like mad — 

Never were Kings (though small the expense is 

Of wit among their Excellencies,) 

So out of all their princely senses. 

But, ah ! that dance — that Spanish dance — 

Scarce was the luckless strain begun, 
When, glaring red — as 't were a glance 

Shot from an angry southern sun — 
A light through all the chambers flamed, 

Astonishing old Father Frost, 
Who, bursting into tears, exclaim'd, 

" A thaw, by Jove ! — we're lost, we're lost ' 

Run, F ! a second Waterloo 

Is come to drown you — sauve qui pent ' ' 

Why, why will monarchs caper so 

In palaces without foundations ? 
Instantly all was in a flow : 

Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations , 
Those royal arms, that look'd so nice, 
Cut out in the resplendent ice ; 
Those eagles, handsomely provided 

With double heads for double dealings — 
How fast the globes and sceptres glided 

Out of their claws on all the ceilines ! 



FABLES, ETC. 



211 



Proud Prussia's double bird of prey, 
Tame as a spatch-cock, slunk away ; 
While— just like France herself, when she 

Proclaims how great her naval skill is — 
Poor ******' drowning fleurs-de-lys 

Imagined themselves ivater-lilies. 
And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves, 

But — still more fatal execution — 
The Great Legitimates themselves 

Seem'd in a state of dissolution. 
The indignant Czar — when just about 

To issue a sublime Ukase — 
"Whereas, all light must be kept out" 

Dissolved to nothing in its blaze. 
Next Prussia took his turn to melt, 
And, while his lips illustrious felt 
The influence of this southern air, 

Some word like "Constitution," long 
Conceal' d* in frosty silence there, 

Came slowly thawing from his tongue. 
While ******, lapsing by degrees, 

And sighing cut a faint adieu 
To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese, 

And smoking fondus, quickly grew 

Himself into a fondu too ; — 
Or, like that goodly King they make 
Of sugar, for a twelfth-night cake, 
When, in some urchin's mouth, alas, 
It melts into a shapeless mass ! 

In short, I scarce could count a minute 
Ere the bright dome, and all within it — 
Kings, Fiddlers, Emperors — all were gone ! 

And nothing now was seen or heard 
But the bright river, rushing on, 

Happy as an enfranchised bird, 
And prouder of that natural ray, 
Shining along its chainless way — 
More proudly happy thus to glide 

In simple grandeur to the sea, 
Than when in sparkling fetters tied, 
And deck'd with all that kingly pride 

Could bring to light its slavery ! 

Such is my dream — and, I confess, 

I tremble at its awfulness. 

That Spanish dance — that southern beam — 

But I say nothing — there 's my dream — 

And Madame Krudener, the she-prophet, 

May make just what she pleases of it. 



FABLE II. 

THE LOOKING-GLASSES. 

Proem. 
Where Kings have been by mob-elections 

Raised to the throne, 'tis strange to see 
What different and what odd perfections 

Men have required in royalty. 
Some, likeing monarchs large and plumpy, 

Have chosen their Sovereigns by the weight ; 
Some wish'd them tall ; some thought your dumpy, 

Dutch-built the true Legitimate. 1 

1 The Goths had a law to choose always a short thi^k 1 " In a Prince, a jolter-head is invaluable. '—Onen tal 
man for their king.— jMunslcr, Cosmog. lib. iii. p. 164. J Field Sports. 



The Easterns, in a Prince, 't is said, 
Prefer what 's call'd a jolter-head ; J 
The Egyptians were n't at all partic'lar, 

So that their Kings had not red hair — 
This fault not even the greatest stickler 

For the blood-royal well could bear 
A thousand more such illustrations 
Might be adduced from various nations ; 
But, 'mong the many tales they tell us, 

Touching the acquired or natural right 
Which some men have to rule their fellows, 

There 's one which I shall here recite :- 

Fable. 
There was a land — to name the place 

Is neither now my wish nor duty — 
Where reign'd a certain royal race, 

By right of their superior beauty. 

What was the cut legitimate 

Of these great persons' chins and noses, 
By right of which they ruled the state, 

No history I have seen discloses. 

But so it was — a settled case — 

Some act of Parliament, pass'd snugly, 

Had voted them a beauteous race, 
And all their faithful subjects ugly 

As rank, indeed, stood high or low, 
Some change it made in visual organs ; 

Your Peers were decent — Knights, so so — 
But all your common people gorgons ! 

Of course, if any knave but hinted 
That the King's nose was turn'd awry, 

Or that the Queen (God save us !) squinted — 
The judges doom'd that knave to die. 

But rarely things like this occurr'd : 

The people to their King were duteous, 

And took it, on his royal w r ord, 
That they were frights and he was beauteous 

The cause whereof, among all classes, 
Was simply this : — these island elvea 

Had never yet seen looking-glasses, 
And, therefore, did not know themselves. 

Sometimes, indeed, their neighbours' faces 
Might strike them as more full of reason, 

More fresh than those in certain places — 
But, Lord ! the very thought was treason ! 

Besides, howe'er we love our neighbour, 
And take his face's part, 't is known 

We never half so earnest labour, 
As when the face attack'd 's our own. 

So, on they went — the crowd believing 
(As crowds well govern'd always do.) 

Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving — 
So old the joke they thought it true. 

But jokes, we know, if they too far go, 
Must have an end ; and so, one day, 



212 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Upon that coast there was a cargo 
Of looking-glasses cast away. 

'T was said, some Radicals, somewhere, 
Had laid their wicked heads together, 

And forced that ship to founder there — 
While some believe it was the weather. 

However this might be, the freight 
Was landed without fees or duties; 

And, from that hour, historians date 
The downfall of the race of beauties. 

The looking-glasses got about, 
And grew so common through the land, 

That scarce a tinker could walk out 
Without a mirror in his hand. 

Comparing faces, morning, noon, 

And night, their constant occupation — 

By dint of looking-glasses, soon 
They grew a most reflecting nation. 

In vain the Court, aware of errors 
In all the old, established mazards, 

Prohibited the use of mirrors, 
And tried to break them at all hazards : 

In vain — their laws might just as well 
Have been waste paper on the shelves ; 

That fatal freighfhad broke the spell ; 
People had look'd — and knew themselves 

If chance a Duke, of birth sublime, 

Presumed upon his ancient face 
fSome calf-head, ugly from all time,) 

They popp'd a mirror to his Grace — 

Just hinting, by that gentle sign, 

How little Nature holds it true, 
That what is call'd an ancient line 

Must be the line of Beauty too. 

From Dukes' they pass'd to regal phizzes, 
Compared them proudly with their own, 

And cried, " How could such monstrous quizzes, 
In Beauty's name, usurp the throne?" 

They then wrote essays, pamphlets, books, 

Upon cosmetical economy, 
Which made the King try various looks, 

Bot none improved his physiognomy. 

And satires at the Court they levell'd, 
And small lampoons, so full of slynesses, 

That soon, in short, they quite be-devil'd 
Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses. 

At length — but here I drop the veil, 
To spare some loyal folks' sensations : 

Besides, what follows is the tale 
Of all such late-enlighten'd nations ; 

Of all to whom old Time discloses 

A truth they should have sooner known— 

That Kings have neither rights nor noses 
A whit diviner than their own. 



FABLE III. 

THE FLY AND THE BULLOCK. 
Proem. 
Of all that, to the sage's-survey 
This world presents of topsy-turvey. 
There 's nought so much disturbs his patience 
As little minds in lofty stations. 
'T is like that sort of painful wonder 
Which slight and pigmy columns under 

Enormous arches give beholders ; 
Or those poor Caryatides, 
Condemn'd to smile and stand at ease, 

With a whole house upon their shoulders 

If, as in some few royal cases, 

Small minds are born into such places — 

If they are there, by Right Divine, 

Or any such sufficient reason, 
Why — Heaven forbid we should repine !— 

To wish it otherwise were treason ; 
Nay, even to see it in a vision, 
Would be what lawyers call misprision. 

Sir Robert Filmer says — and he, 

Of course, knew all about the matter— 
"Both men and beasts love monarchy :" 

Which proves how rational — the latter 
Sidney, indeed, we know, had quite 
A different notion from the knight ; 
Nay, hints a King may lose his head 

By slipping awkwardly his bridle : 
But this is Jacobin, ill-bred, 
And (now-a-days, when Kings are led 

In patent snaffles) downright idle. 

No, no — it is n't foolish Kings 
(Those fix'd, inevitable things — 
Bores paramount, by right of birth) 

That move my wrath, but your pretenders 
Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth, 

Who, not like t' others, crowned offenders 
(Regular gratia Dei blockheads, 
Born with three kingdoms in their pockets,) s 
Nor leaving, on the scale of mind, 
These royal Zeros far behind, 
Yet, with a brass that nothing stops, 

Push up into the loftiest stations, 
And, though too dull to manage shops 

Presume, the dolts, to manage nations 

This class it is that moves my gall, 
And stirs up spleen, and bile, and ail 
While other senseless things appear 
To know the limits of their sphere — 
While not a cow on earth romances 
So much as to conceit she dances — 
While the most jumping Frog we know of, 
Would scarce at Astley's hope to show off— 
Your ****s and ****s dare, 

Pigmy as are their minds, to set them 
To any business, any where, 

At any time that fools will let them. 
But leave we here these upstart things — 
My business is, just now, with Kings ; 
To whom, and to their right-line glory, 
I dedicate the following story : 



Fable. 
The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies; 

And, even when they most condescended to teach, 
They pack'd up their meaning, as they did their 
mummies, 
In ec many wrappers, 'twas out of one's reach. 

They were also, good people, much given to Kings — 
Fond of monarchs and crocodiles, monkeys and 
mystery, 

Hats, hieraphants, blue-bottle flies, and such things — 
As will partly appear in this very short history. 

A Scythian philosopher (nephew, they say, 

To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis) 

Stepp'd into a temple at Memphis one day, 
To have a short peep at their mystical farces. 

He saw a brisk blue-bottle Fly on an altar, 1 
Made much of, and worshipp'd as something 
divine ; 

While a large handsome Bullock, led there in a halter, 
Before it lay stabb'd at the foot of the shrino 

Surprised at such doings, he whisper' d his teacher — 
" If 't is n't impertinent, may I ask why 

Should a Bullock, that useful and powerful creature, 
Be thus offered up to a blue-bottle Fly ?" 

K No wonder," said t' other, "you stare at the sight, 
But we as a symbol of monarchy view it : 

That Fly on the shrine is Legitimate Right, 
And that Bullock the people that's sacrificed to it.' 



FABLE IV. 

CHURCH AND STATE. 

Proem. 

11 The moment any religion becomes national, or establish- 
ed, its purity must certainly be lost, because it is then im- 
possible to keep it unconnected with men's interests ; and, 
lif connected, it must evidently be perverted by them." — 
Soame Jenyns. 

Thus did Soame Jenyns — though a Tory, 
A Lord of Trade and the Plantations — 

Feel how Religion's simple glory 
Is stained by State associations. 

When Catherine, after murdering Poles 

Appeal'd to the benign Divinity, 
Then cut them up in protocols, 
Made fractions of their very souls — 2 

All in the name of the bless'd Trinity ; 
Or when her grandson, Alexander, 
That mighty northern salamander, 
Whose icy touch, felt all about, 
Puts every fire of Freedom out — 
When he, too, winds up his Ukases 
With God and the Panagia's praises — 
When he, of royal saints the type, 

In holy water dips the sponge, 



1 According to iElian, it was in the island of Leucadia 
Ihey practised this ceremony — Justv /ioui/ tk<s /^vmtg. — JDe 
dr.iinal. lib. ii. cap. a. 

9 Ames, demi-ames, etc. 



With which, at one imperial wipe, 

He would all human rights expunge ! 
When ****** (whom, as King and eater, 
Some name ***-****, and some *** *******^ 
Calls down " Saint Louis' God" to witness 
The right, humanity, and fitness 
Of sending eighty thousand Solons- 

Sages with muskets and laced coats — 
To cram instruction, nolens volens, 

Down the poor struggling Spaniard's throats— 
I can't help thinking (though to Kings 

I must, of course, like other men, bow) 
That when a Christian monarch brings 
Religion's name to gloss these things — 

Such blasphemy out-Benbows Benbow ! 

Or — not so far for facts to roam, 
Having a few much nearer home — 
When we see churchmen, who, if ask'd, 
" Must Ireland's slaves be tithed and task'd, 
And driven, like negroes or Croats, 

That you may roll in wealth and bliss ?" 
Look from beneath their shovel hats 

With all due pomp, and answer " Yes !" 
But then, if question'd, " Shall the brand 
Intolerance flings throughout that land, 
Betwixt her palaces and hovels, 

Suffering nor peace nor love to grow, 
Be ever quench'd ?" — from the same shovels 

Look grandly forth, and answer "No !"— 
Alas, alas ! have these a claim 
To merciful Religion's name ? 

If more you want, go, see a bevy 
Of bowing parsons at a levee 
(Chusing your time, when straw 's before 
Some apoplectic bishop's door :) 
There, if thou canst with life escape 
That sweep of lawn, that press of crape, 
Just watch their rev'rences and graces, 

Should'ring their way on, at all risks, 
And say, if those round ample faces 

To heaven or earth most turn their disks ? 

This, this it is — Religion, made, 
'Twixt Church and State, a truck, a trade-. 
This most ill-match'd, unholy Co. 
From whence the ills we witness flow— 
The war of many creeds with one, 
The extremes of too much faith, and none 
The qualms, the fumes of sect and sceptic, 
And all that Reason, grown dyspeptic 
By swallowing forced or noxious creeds, 
From downright indigestion breeds ; 
Till, 'twixt old bigotry and new, 
'Twixt Blasphemy and Cant — the two 
Rank ills with which this age is cursed— 
We can no more tell which is worst, 
Than erst could Egypt, when so rich 
In various plagues, determine which 
She thought most pestilent and vile — 
Her frogs, like Benbow and Carlile, 
Croaking their native mud-notes loud, 
Or her fat locusts, like a cloud 
Of pluralists, obeselv lowering, 
At once benighting and devouring '. 



IU 



214 



MOORE S WORKS. 



This—this it is —and here I pray 

Those sapient wits of the Reviews, 
Who make us poor, dull authors say, 

Not what we mean, but what they choose ; 
Who to our most abundant shares 
Of nonsense add still more of theirs, 
Ajid are to poets just such evils 
As caterpillars find those flies 1 
That, not content to sting like devils, 

Lay eggs upon their backs likewise— 
To guard against such foul deposits, 
Of others' meanings in my rhymes 
(A thing more needful here because it 's 

A subject ticklish in these times,) 
I here to all such wits make known, 

Monthly and weekly, Whig and Tory, ' 
*T is this Religion — this alone — 
I aim at in the following story : 

Fable. 

When Royalty was young and bold, 
Ere, touch'd by Time, he had become— 

If 't is not civil to say old — 

At least, a ci-devant jejune homme. 

One evening, on some wild pursuit, 

Driving along, he chanced to see 
Religion, passing by on foot, 

And took him in his vis-h-vis. 

This said Religion was a friar, 

The humblest and the best of men, 
Who ne'er had notion or desire 

Of riding in a coach till then. 

" I say" — quoth Royalty, who rather 

Enjoy'd a masquerading joke — 
" I say, suppose, my good old father, 

You lend me, for a while, your cloak." 

The friar consented — little knew 

What tricks the youth had in his head ; 

Besides, was rather tempted, too, 
By a laced coat he got in stead. 

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash, 

Scampering like mad about the town ; 

Broke windows — shiver'd lamps to smash, 
And knock'd whole scores of watchmen down. 

While nought could they whose heads were broke. 

Learn of the " why" or the "wherefore," 
Except that 't was Religion's cloak 

The gentleman, who crack'd them, wore. 

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turn'd 
By the laced coat, grew frisky too — 

Look'd big — his former habits spurn'd — 
And storm'd about as great men do — 

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses- 
Said " Damn you," often, or as bad — 

Laid claim to other people's purses- 
In short, grew either knave or mad. 



1 "The greatest number of the ichneumon tribe are s^en 
settling upon the back of the caterpillar, and darting at dif- 
ferent intervals their rtings into its body — at every dart they 
deposit an egg."— Goldsmith 



As work like this was unbefitting, 

And flesh and blood 1 o longer bore it, 

The Court of Common Stnse then sitting, 
Summon'd the culprits both before it. 

Where, after hours in wrangling spent 
(As courts must wrangle to decide well,) 

Religion to Saint Luke's was sent, 
And Royalty pack'd off to Bridew ill: 

With this proviso — Should they be 
Restored in due time to their senses, 

They both must give security 
In future, against such offences — 

Religion ne'er to lend his cloak, 

Seeing what dreadful work it leads to ; 

And Royalty to crack his joke — 
But not to crack poor people's heads, too. 



FABLE V. 

THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA. 

Proem. 
Novella, a young Bologne?e, 

The daughter of a learn'd law doctor, 1 
Who had with all the subtleties 

Of old and modern jurists stock'd her, 
Was so exceeding fair, 't is said, 

And over hearts held such dominion, 
That when her father, sick in bed, 
Or busy, sent her, in his stead, 

To lecture on the Code Justinian, 
She had a curtain drawn before her, 

Lest, if her charms were seen, the students 
Should let their young eyes wander o'er her, 

And quite forget their jurisprudence. 2 
Just so it is with Truth — when seen, 

Too fair and bright — 't is from behind 
A light, thin allegoric screen, 

She thus can safest teach mankind. 

Fable. 
In Thibet once there reign'd, we 're told, 
A little Lama, one year old — 
Raised to the throne, that realm to bless, 
Just when his little Holiness 
Had cut — as near as can be reckon'd — 
Some say his first tooth, some his second. 
Chronologers and verses vary, 
Which proves historians should be wary. 
We only know the important truth — 
His Majesty had cut a tooth. 3 

And much his subjects were enchanted, 
As well all Lamas' subjects may be, 



1 Andreas. 

2 duand H etoit occupe d'aueune essoine, W envoyart 
Novelle, sn fille, en son lieu lire aux rscholes en charge, et 
afin que la biaiite d' clle n' empechat la pensee des oyants 
elle avoit nne petite conrtine devant elle. — Christ, de Pise 
Cite des Dames, p. 11. chap. 36. 

3 See Tumetr'g Embassy 1o Thibet for an account of hi» 
interview with the Lama. " Teshoo Lama (he says) wns at 
this time ei.?hteen months old. Thoujrh he was unable ti 
speak a word, he made the most expressive signs, and cou 
ducted himself with astonishing dignity and decorum * 



FABLES, ETC. 



215 



And would have given their heads, if wanted, 

To make tee-totums for the baby 
As he was there by Right Divine 

(What lawyers call Jure Divino, 
Meaning a right to yours, and mine, 

And every body's goods and rhino) — 
Of course his faithful subjects' purses 

Were ready with their aids and succours — 
Nothing was seen but pension'd nurses, 

And the land groan' d with bibs and tuckers. 

Oh ! had there been a Hume or Bennet 
Then sitting in the Thibet Senate, 
Ye gods, what room for long debates 
Upon the Nursery Estimates ! 
What cutting down of swaddling-clothes 

And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles ! 
What calls for papers to expose 

The waste of sugar-plums and rattles ! 
But no— if Thibet had M. Ps., 
They were far better bred than these ; 
Nor gave the slightest opposition, 
Dur'ag the Monarch's whole dentition, 

But (short this calm ; for, just when he 
Had reach'd the alarming age of three, 
When royal natures — and, no doubt 
Those of all noble beasts — break out, 
The Lama, who till then was quiet, 
Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot ; 
And, ripe for mischief, early, late, 
Without regard for Church or State, 
Made free with whosoe'er came nigh — 

Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose, 
Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry, 

And trod on the old General's toes — 
Pelted the Bishops with hot buns, 

Rode cock-horse on the City maces, 
And shot, from little devilish guns, 

Hard peas into his subjects' faces. 
fn short, such wicked pranks he play'd, 

And grew so mischievous (God bless him !) 
That his chief iSurse — though with the aid 
Of an Archbishop — was afraid, 

When in these moods, to comb or dress him ; 
And even the persons most inclined 

For Kings, through thick and thin, to stickle, 
Thought him (if they 'd but speak their mind, 

Which they did not) an odious pickle. 

At length, some patriot lords — a breed 

Of animals they have in Thibet, 
Extremely rare, and fit, indeed, 

For folks like Pidcock to exhibit — 
Some patriot lords, seeing the length 
To which things went, combined their strength, 
And penn'd a manly, plain and free 
Remonstrance to the Nursery ; 
In which, protesting that they yielded 

To none, that ever went before 'era— 
In loyalty to him who wielded 

The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em — 
That, as for treason, 't was a thing 

That made them almost sick to think of— 



That they and theirs stood by the King, 

Throughout his measles and his chin-cough, 
When others, thinking him consumptive, 
Had ratted to the heir Presumptive ! — 
But, still — though much admiring Kings 
(And chiefly those in leading-strings) — 
They saw, with shame and grief of so\J, 

There was no longer now the wise 
And constitutional control 

Of birch before their ruler's eyes ; 
But that, of late, such pranks, and tricks, 

And freaks occurr'd the whole day long, 
As all, but men with bishopricks, 

Allow'd, even in a King, were wrong- 
Wherefore it was they humbly pray'd 

That Honourable Nursery, 
That such reforms be henceforth made, 

As all good men desired to see ; — 
In other words (lest they might seem 
Too tedious,) as the gentlest scheme 
For putting all such pranks to rest, 

And in its bud the mischief nippiag — 
They ventured humbly to suggest 
, His Majesty should have a whipping ! 

When this was read — no Congreve rocket^ 

Discharged into the Gallic trenches, 
E'er equall'd the tremendous shock it 

Produced upon the Nursery Benches. 
The Bishops, who of course had votes, 
By right of age and petticoats, 
Were first and foremost in the fuss — 

" What, whip a Lama ! — suffer birch 

To touch his sacred infamous ! 

Deistical ! — assailing thus 

The fundamentals of the Church ! 
No — no — such patriot plans as these 
(So help them Heaven — and their sees !) 
They held to be rank blasphemies.'* 

The alarm thus given, by these and other 

Grave ladies of the Nursery side, 
Spread through the land, till, such a pother. 

Such party squabbles, far and wioe, 
Never in history's page had been 
Recorded, as were then between 
The Whippers and Non-whippers seen. 
Till, things arriving at a state 

Which gave some fears of revolution, 
The patriot lords' advice, though late, 

Was put at last in execution. 
The Parliament of Thibet met — 

The little Lama, call'd before it, 
Did, then and there, his whipping get, 
And (as the Nursery Gazette 

Assures us) like a hero bore it. 

And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some 
Lament that Royal Martyrdom 
(Please to observe, the letter D 
In this last word 's pronounced like B,) 
Yet to the example of that Prince 

So much is Thibet's land a debtor, 
'Tis said, her little Lamas since 

Have all behaved themselves much betto? 



215 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



FABLE VI. 



THE EXTINGUISHERS. 



Though soldiers a?s the true supports, 
The natural allies of Courts, 
Woe to the Monarch who depends 
Too much on his red-coated friends ; 
for even soldiers sometimes think — 

Nay, Colonels have been known to reason,- 
And reasoners, whether clad in pink, 
Or red, or blue, are on the brink 

(Nine cases out of ten) of treason. 

Not many soldiers, I believe, are 

As fond of liberty as Mina ; 
Else — woe to Kings, when Freedom's fever 

Once turns into a Scarlelina .' 
For then — but hold — 'tis best to veil 
My meaning in the following tale : — 

Fable. 
A lord of Persia, rich and great, 
Just come into a large estate, 
Was shock'd to find he had, for neighbours, 
Close to his gate, some rascal Ghebers, 
Whose fires, beneath his very nose 
In heretic combustion rose. 
But lords of Persia can, no doubt, 

Do what they will — so, one fine morning, 
He turn d the rascal Ghebers out, 

First giving a few kicks for warning. 
Then, thanking Heaven most piously, 

He knock'd their temple to the ground, 
Blessing himself for joy to see 

Such Pagan ruins strew'd around. 
But much it vex'd my lord to find, 

That, while all else obey'd his will, 
The fire these Ghebers left behind — 

Do what he would — kept burning still. 
Fiercely he storm'd, as if his frown 
Could scare the bright insurgent down ; 
But no — such fires are headstrong things, 
And care not much for lords or kings. 
Scarce could his lordship well contrive 

The flashes in one place to smother, 
Before — hey, presto — all alive, 

They sprung up freshly i n another. 

At length, when, spite of prayers and damns, 

'T was found the sturdy flame defied him, 
His stewards came, with low salams, 

Offering, by contract, to provide him 
Some large extinguishers (a plan 
Much used, they said, at Ispahan, 
Vienna, Petersburgh — in short, 
Wherever light 's forbid at court) — 
Machines no lord should be without, 
Which would, at once, put promptly out 
Fires of all kinds — from staring stark 
Volcanos to the tiniest spark — 
Till all things slept as dull and dark 



As, in a great lord's neighbourhood, 

'T was right and fitting all things should. 

Accordingly, some large supplies 

Of these Extinguishers were furnish'd 
(All of the true, imperial size,) 

And there, in rows, stood black and burnish'dj 
Ready, where'er a gleam but shone 
Of light or fire, to be clapp'd on. 

But, ah ! how lordly wisdom errs, 
In trusting to extinguishers ! 
One day, when he had left all sure 
(At least believed so,) dark, secure — 
The flame, at all its exits, entries, 

Obstructed to his heart's content, 
And black extinguishers, like sentries, 

Placed upon every dangerous vent — 
Ye gods ! imagine his amaze, 

His wrath, his rage, when, on returning, 
He found not only the old blaze, 

Brisk as before, crackling and burning — 
Not only new, young conflagrations, 
Popping up round in various stations — 
But, still more awful, strange, and dire, 
The Extinguishers themselves on fire ! ! ' 
They, they — those trusty, blind machines 

His lordship had so long been praising, 
As, under Providence, the means 

Of keeping down all lawless blazing, 
Were now themselves — alas, too true 
The shameful fact — turn'd blazers loo, 
And, by a change as odd as cruel, 
Instead of dampers, served for fuel ! 

Thus, of his only hope bereft, 

"What," said the great man, "must be done V 
All that, in scrapes like this, is left 

To great men is — to cut and run. 
So run he did ; while to their grounds 

The banish'd Ghebers bless'd return'd : 
And, though their fire had broke its bounds, 

And all abroad now wildly burn'd, 
Yet well could they, who loved the flame, 
Its wand'ring, its excess reclaim ; 
And soon another, fairer dome 
Arose to be its sacred home, 
Where, cherish'd, guarded, not confin'd, 
The living glory dwelt inshrined, 
And, shedding lustre, strong but even, 
Though born of earth, grew worthy Heaven 

Moral. 

The moral hence my Muse infers 
Is — that such lords are simple elves. 

In trusting to extinguishers 
That are combustible themselves. «, 



1 The idea of this fable was caught from one of thos6 
brilliant mots which abound in the conversation of my 
friend, the author of the betters to Julia— a production 
which contains some of the happiest specimens of !>iuyful 
poetry that have appeared in this or any a<rc. 



CORRUPTION AND INTOLERANCE ; 

TWO POEMS. 



PREFACE. 



The practice which has lately been introduced into 
literature, of writing very long notes upon very indif- 
ferent verses, appears to me rather a happy invention; 
for it supplies us with a mode of turning stupid poetry 
to account ; and as horses too dull for the saddle may 
serve well enough to draw lumber, so poems of this 
kind make excellent beasts of burden, and will bear 
note?, though they may not bear reading. Besides, 
the comments in such cases are so little under the ne- 
cessity of paying any servile deference to the text, 
that they may even adopt that Socratic dogma, 
" Quod supra nos nihil ad nos." 

In the first of the following poems, I have ventured 
to speak of the Revolution in language which has 
sometimes been employed by Tory writers, and 
which is therefore neither very new nor popular. 
But, however an Englishman may be reproached 
with ingratitude, for appreciating the merits and re- 
sults of a measure which he is taught to regard as the 
source of his liberties — however ungrateful it might be 
in Alderman Birch to question for a moment the pu- 
rity of that glorious era to which he is indebted for 
the seasoning of so many orations — yet an Irishman, 
who has none of these obligations to acknowledge, to 
whose country the Revolution brought nothing but 
injury and insult, and who recollects that the book 
of Molyneux was burned, by order of William's 
Whig Parliament, for daring to extend to unfortunate 
Ireland those principles on which the Revolution was 
professedly founded — an Irishman may venture to 
criticise the measures of that period, without expos 
ing himself either to the imputation of ingratitude, or 
the suspicion of being influenced by any popish re 
mains of jacobitism. No nation, it is true, was ever 
blessed with a more golden opportunity of establish- 
ing and securing its liberties for ever than the con- 
juncture of Eighty-eight presented to the people of 
Great Britain. But the disgraceful reigns of Charles 
and James had weakened and degraded the national 
character. The bold notions of popular right, which 
had arisen out of the struggles between Charles the 
First and his Parliament, were gradually supplanted 
by those slavish doctrines for which Lord H — kesb-ry 
eulogizes the churchmen of that period ; and as the 
Reformation had happened too soon for the purity of 
religion, so the Revolution came too late for the 
spirit of liberty. Its advantages accordingly were for 
he most part specious and transitory, while the evils 
which it entaded are still felt and still increasing. By 
2 E 



rendering unnecessary the frequent exercise of pre- 
rogative, that unwieldy power which cannot move a 
tep without alarm, it limited the only interference 
of the Crown which is singly and independently ex- 
posed before the people, and whose abuses are there- 
fore obvious to their senses and capacities : ljke the 
myrtle over a certain statue in Minerva's temple at 
Athens, it skilfully veiled from their sight the only 
obtrusive feature of royalty. At the same time, how- 
ever, that the Revolution abridged this unpopular 
attribute, it amply compensated by the substitution of 
a new power, as much more potent in its effect as it 
is more secret in its operations. In the disposal of 
an immense revenue, and the extensive patronage an- 
nexed to it, the first foundations of this power of the 
Crown were laid ; the innovation of a standing army 
at once increased and strengthened it, and the few 
slight barriers which the Act of Settlement opposed 
to its progress have all been gradually removed dur- 
ing the whiggish reigns that succeeded, till . at length 
this spirit of influence is become the vital principle of 
the state, whose agency, subtle and unseen, pervades 
every part of the constitution, lurks under aU its 
forms, and regulates all its movements ; and, like the 
invisible sylph or grace which presides over the mo- 
tions of beauty, 

"Mam, quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia ficciit, 
Componit funim subsequiturque." 

The cause of liberty and the Revolution are so ha- 
bitually associated by Englishmen, that, probably, in 
objecting to the latter I m. y be thought hostile or in- 
diiFerent to the former; but nothing can be more 
unjust than such a suspicion ; — the very object which 
my humble animadversions would attain is, that in the 
crisis to which I think England is hastening, and be- 
tween which and foreign subjugation she may soon 
be compelled to choose, the errors and omissions of 
1688 may be remedied, and that, as she then had a 
Revolution without a Reform, she may now seek a 
Reform without a Revolution. 

In speaking of the parties which have so long agi- 
tated England, it will be observed that I lean as little 
to the Whigs as to their adversaries. Both factions 
have been equally cruel to Ireland, and perhaps 
equally insincere in their efforts for the liberties of 
England. There is one name, indeed, connected 
with whiggism, of which I can never think but with 
veneration and tenderness. As justly, however, 
might the light of the sun be claimed by any particu- 
lar nation, as the sanction iof that name be assumed 
by any party whatever : Mr. Fox belonged to man- 
kind, and they have lost in him their ablest friend 



L 



218 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



With respect to the few lines upon Intolerance, 
which I have subjoined, they are but the imperfect 
beginning of a long series of Essays, with which I 
here menace my readers, upon the same important 
subject. I shall look to no higher merit in the task, 
than that of giving a new form to claims and remon- 
strances, which have been often much more elegantly 
urged, and which would long ere now have produced 
their effect, but that the minds of some men, like the 
pupil of the eye, contract themselves the more, the 
stronger light there is shed upon them. 



CORRUPTION, 

AN EPISTLE. 



Nov J' XTrxvd* axrjrsp e£ xyopxg ex7rsrrpxTxt txvtx' xvret- 
crq*.T-j,i 8e xwi toutuuv, vi^' u>v xttoXuiXb y.xi vivo<rv\Y.tv q 
E"KXx.g. T»ut» S' ectt* ti 5 £>|X.o$, ft Tig SfKtffpS tj - 
ys\uig xv oy-oKayvf <rvyyvuiftq roig tXiyy^fisvoi^' ,«(<ros, 
xv rovTOig rig ejvJTt/tcf TxkKu^ 7rxvrx, ocrx ex tou 

^oopO^OXSil/ }\pTV\TXl m 

Demosth. Philipp. iii. 



Boast on, my friend — though, stript of all beside, 
Thy struggling nation still retains her pride : l 
That pride which once in genuine glory woke, 
When Marlborough fought, and brilliant St. John 

spoke ; 
That pride which still, by time and shame unstung, 
Outlives e'en Wh*tel*cke's sword and H*wksb'ry's 

tongue ! 
Boast on, my friend, while in this humbled isle, 2 
Where honour mourns and freedom fears to smile, 
Where the bright light of England's fame is known 
But by the baleful shadow she has thrown 
On ali our fate 3 — where, doom'd to wrongs and 

slights, 
We hear you talk of Britain's glorious rights, 



1 Angli suos ac sua omnia impense mirantur; cteteras 
nationes despectui habent. — Barclay (as quoted in one of 
Dryden's prefaces.) 

2 England began very early to feel the effec's of cruelty 
towards her dependencies. " The severity of her Govern- 
ment (says Macpherson) contributed more to deprive her of 
the continental dominions of the family of Plantagenet than 
the arms of France." — See his History, vol. i. page 111. 

3 " By the total reduction of the kingdom of Ireland, in 
16S1 (says Burke,) the ruin of the native Irish, and in a 
great measure too of the first races of the English, was com- 
pletely accomplished. The new English interest w;;s settled 
with as solid a stability as any thing in human affairs can 
look for. All the penal laws of that unparalleled code of 
oppression, which were made after the last event, were ma- 
nifestly the effects of national hatred and scorn towards a 
conquered people, whom the victors delighted to trample 
upon, and were not at all afraid to provoke." Yet this is 
the era to which the wise Common Council of Dublin refer 
ns for " invaluable blessings," etc. And this is the era 
which such Governors as his Grace the Duke of R-chm-nd 
think it politic to commemorate, in the eyes of my insulted 
countrymen, by an annual procession round the statue of 
King William ! 

An unvarying trait of the policy of Great Britain towards 
Ireland has been her selection of such men to govern us as 
were le;ist likely to deviate into justice and liberality, and 
Vie alarm which she has taken when any conscientious 
Viceroy has shown symptoms of departure from the old 
code of prejudice and oppression. Our most favoutite 
Governors have accordingly been our shortest visitors, and 



As weeping slaves, that under hatches lie, 

Hear those on deck extol the sun and sky ! 

Boast on, while wandering through my native hauntq 

I coldly listen to thy patriot vaunts, 

And feel, though close our wedded cour.tnns twine 

More sorrow for my own than pride from thine 

Yet pause a moment — and if truths severe 

Can find an inlet to that courtly ear 

Which loves no politics in rhyme but P — e's, 

And hears no news but W — rd's gazetted lies ; 

If aught can please thee but the good old saws 

Of " Church and State," and " William's matchless 

laws," 
And " Acts and Rights of glorious Eighty-eight,"— 
Things, which though now a century out of date, 
Still serve to ballast, with convenient words, 
A few crank arguments for speeching Lords — ' 
Turn, while I tell how England's freedom found, 
Where most she looked for life, her deadliest wound 
How brave she struggled, while her foe was seen, 
How faint since Influence lent that foe a screen ; 
How strong o'er James and Popery she prevail'd, 
How weakly fell, when Whigs and gold assail'd. 2 



the first moments of their popularity have in general been 
the last of their government. Thus sir Anthony Belling ham, 
after the death of Henry the Eighth, was recalled, " lor not 
sufficiently consulting the English interests," or, in other 
words, for not shooting the requisite quantity of wild Irish. 
The same kind of delinquency led to the recall of Sir John 
Perrot, in Elizabeth's time, and to that of the Earl of Rad- 
nor, in the reisrn of Charles the Second, of whom Lord Or- 
ford says, "We are not told how he disappointed the King's 
expectations, probably not by too great complaisance, nor 
why his administration, which Burnet calls just, was dis 
liked. If it is true that be was a good governor, the pre- 
sumption will be that his rule was not disliked by tho.^e to 
Whom but from whom he was sent." — Royal and »Yul>le 
Authors. 

We are not without instances of the same illiberal policy 
in our own times. 

1 It never seems to occur to those orators and addressers 
who round off so many sentences and paragraphs with the 
Bill of Rights, the Act of Settlement, etc. that ail the pro- 
visions which these Acts contained for the preservation of 
parliamentary independence have been long laid aside as 
romantic and troublesome. The Revolution, as its greatest 
admirers acknowledge, was little more than a recognition 
of ancient privileges, a restoration of that old Gothic struc- 
ture which was brought from the woods of Germany into 
England. Edward the First had long before made a similar 
recognition, and had even more expressly reverted to the 
first principles of the constitution, by declaring that "the 
people should have their laws, liberties, and free customs, 
as largely and wholly as they have used to have the same 
at any time they had them." But, lucidly for the Crown 
and its interests,"the concessions both of Edwn id and of Wil- 
liam have been equally vague and verbal, equally theoreti- 
cal and insincere. The feudal system was continu d, not- 
withstanding the former, and Lord M 's honest head is 

upon his shoulders, in spite of the latter. So that 1 confess 
I never meet with a politician who seriously quotes the De- 
claration of Rights, etc. to prove the actual existence of 
English liberty, that I do not think of the Marnui-, whom 
Montesquieu mentions, (a) who set about looking for mines 
in the Pyrenees, upon the strength of authorities which he 
had read in some ancient authors. The poor Marquis 
toiled and searched in vain. He quoted his authorities to 
the last, but he found no mines after all. 

2 The chief, perhaps the only, advantage which has re- 
sulted from the system of influence, is tho*rann,uil, uninter- 
rupted flow which it has given to the administration of 
Government. If Kings must be paramount in the State 
(and their Ministers at least seem to think so,) the country 
is indebted to the Revolution for enabling them to become 
so quietly, and for removing so skilfully the danger of those 
shocks and collisions which the alarming efforts of preroga 
tive never failed to produce. 

( a) Liv. xxi. chap. 11. 



CORRUPTION. 



219 



While Kings were poor, and all those schemes un- 
known 
Which drain the People, but enrich the Throne ; 
Ere yet a yielding Commons had supplied 
Those chains of gold by which themselves are tied; 
Then proud Prerogative, untaught to creep 
With Bribery's silent foot on Freedom's sleep, 1 

It is the nature of a people in general to attend but to the 
externals of Government. Having neither leisure nor abili- 
ty to discuss its measures, they look no deeper than the sur- 
face tor their utility, and no farther than the present for their 
consequences. Mrs. Macaulay has said of a certain period, 
"The people at this time were, as the people of Great 
Britain always are, half-stupid, half-drunk, and half-asleep;" 
and however we may dissent from this petulant effusion of 
a Scotch-woman, it must be owned that the reasoning pow- 
ers of John Bull are not very easily called into action, and 
hat even where he does condescend to exert them, it is like 
Dogberry's display of his reading and writing, "where there 
is no need of such vanity ;" as upon that deep question about 
the dangers of the church, which was submitted for his dis- 
cussion by Mr. P-rc-v-1 at the late elections. It follows, 
however, from this apathy of the people, that as long as no 
glaring exertion of power, no open violation of forms is ob- 
truded upon them, it is of very little consequence how mat- 
ters are managed behind the curtain; and a few quiet men, 
getting close to the ear of the Throne, may whisper away 
the salvation of the country so inaudibly, that ruin will be 
divested of half its alarming preparatives. If, in addition to 
this slumber of the people, a great majority of those whom 
they have deputed to watch for them, can be induced, by 
any irresistible argument, to prefer the safety of the govern 
ment to the integrity of the constitution, and to think a con- 
nivance at the encroachments of power less troublesome 
than the difficulties which would follow reform, I cannot 
imagine a more tranquil state of affairs than must necessa- 
rily result from such general and well-regulated acquies- 
cence. Instead of vain and agitating efforts to establish 
that speculative balance of the constitution, which perhaps 
has never existed but in the pages of Montesquieu(a) and 
do Lohne, a preponderance would be silently yielded to one 
of the three estates, which would carry the other two almost 
insensibly, but effectually, along with it; and even though 
the path might lead eventually to destruction, yet its spe- 
cious and gilded smoothness would almost atone for the 
danger — like Milton's bridge over Chaos, it would lead 
" Smooth, easy, inoffensive, down to ****. 
1 Though the Kings of England were most unroyally 
harassed and fettered in all their pursuits by pecuniary dif- 
ficulties, before the provident enactments of William's "reign 
had opened to the Crown its present sources of wealth, yet 
we roust not attribute to the Revolutionary Whigs the credit 
altogether of inventing this art of government. Its advan- 
tages had long been understood by ministers and favourites, 
though the limits of the royal revenue prevented them from 
exercising it with effect. In the reign of Mary, indeed, the 
gold of Spain, being added to the usual resources of the 
Throne, produced such a spirit of ductility in her Parlia- 
ments, that the price for which each member had sold him- 
self was publicly ascertained: and if Charies the First could 
have commanded a similar supply, it is not too much to 
suppose that the Commonwealth never would have existed. 
But it was during the reign of the second Charles that the 
nearest approaches were made to that pecuniary system 
which our debt, our funds, and our taxes, have since broueht 
to such perfection; and Clifford and Danby would not dis- 
grace even the present times of political" venality. Still, 
however, the experiment was but partial and imperfect, (b) 
and attended with scarcely any other advantage than that of 
og the uses to which the power of the purse has been 
since converted, just as the fulminating dust of the chemists 
may have prepared the way for the invention of gunpowder. 

(a) Montesquieu seems not a little satisfied with his own 
inn. nuity in finding out the character of the English from 
the nature of their political institutions; but it appears to 
me somewhat like that ea«y sagacity by which Lavater has 
discovered the genius of Shakspeare in his features. 

(b) See Preface to a Collection of Debates, etc. in 1(194 
and 1695, for an account of the public tables kept at West- 
minster, in Charles the Second's time, " to feed the betrayers 
of their country." The payment of each day's work was 
left under their respective plates. 



Frankly avow'd his bold enslaving plan, 

And claim'd a right from God to trample man ! 

But Luther's light had too much warm'd mankind 

For Hampden's truths to linger long behind ; 

Nor then, when king-like Popes had fallen so low 

Could pope-like Kings 1 escape the levelling blow. 

That ponderous sceptre (in whose place we bow 

To the light talisman of influence now,) 

Too gross, too visible to work the spell 

Which Modern Power performs, in fragments fell : 

In fragments lay, till, patch'd and painted o'er 

With fleurs-de-lys, it shone and scourged once more. 

'T was then, my friend, thy kneeling nation quaff 'd 

Long, long and deep, the churchman's opiate draughJ 

Of tame obedience — till her sense of right 

And pulse of glory seem'd extinguish'd quite, 

And Britons slept so sluggish in their chain, 

That wakening Freedom call'd almost in vain ! 

Oh England ! England ! what a chance was thine, 

When the last tyrant of that ill-starr'd line 

Fled from his sullied crown, and left thee free 

To found thy own eternal liberty ! 

How bright, how glorious in that sun-shine hour, 

Might patriot hands have raised the triple tower 2 

Of British freedom on a rock divine, 

Which neither force could storm nor treachery mine ! 

But no — the luminous, the lofty plan, 

Like mighty Babel, seem'd too bold for man ; 

The curse of jarring tongues again v/as given 

To thwart a work which raised men near to Heaven ! 

While Tories marr'd what Whigs had scarce begun, 3 

While Whigs undid what Whigs themselves had done, 4 



1 The drivelling correspondence between James I. and 
his "dog Steenie" (the Duke of Buckingham,) which we 
find among the Hardwick Papers, sufficiently shows, if we 
wanted such illustration, into what doting, idiotic brains the 
plan of arbitrary power may enter. 

2 Tacitus has expressed his opinion, in a passage very 
frequently quoted, that such a distribution of power as the 
theory of the British constitution exhibits is merely a subject 
of bright speculation, " a system more easily praised than 
practised, and which, even could it happen to exist, would 
certainly not prove permanent;" and, in truth, if we reflect 
on the English history, we shall feel very much inclined to 
agree with Tacitus. We shall find that at no period what- 
ever has this balance of the three estates existed ; that the 
nobles predominated till the policy of Henry VII. and his 
successor reduced their weight by breaking up the feudal 
system of property ; that the power of the Crown became 
then supreme and absolute, till the bold encroachments of 
the Commons subverted the fabric altogether ; that the alter- 
nate ascendancy of prerogative and privilege distracted the 
period which followed the Restoration; and that, lastly, the 
Acts of 1688, by laying the foundation of an unbounded 
court influence, have secured a preponderance to the Throne 
which every succeeding year increases. So that the British 
constitution has never perhaps existed but in theory. 

3 "Those two thieves (says Ralph) between whom the 
nation was crucified." — Use and Muse of Parliaments, 
page 164. 

4 The monarchs of Great Britain can never be sufficiently 
grateful for that generous spirit which led the Revolutionary 
Whigs to give away the Crown, without imposing any of 
those restraints or stipulations which other men might have 
taken advantage of such a moment to enforce, and in fram- 
ing of which they had so good a model to follow as the 
limitations proposed by the Lords Essex and Halifax, in the 
debate upon the Exclusion Bill. They not only condescend- 
however, to accept of places, but they took care that 

these dignities should be no impediment to their "voice po- 
tential" in affairs of legislation ; and though an Act was 
after many years suffered to pass, which by one of its arti 
cles disqualified placemen from serving as members of the 
House of Commons, yet it was not allowed to interfere with 
the influence of the reigning monarch, nor indeed with that 
of his successor Anne, as the purifying clause was not to 



220 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The time was lost, and William, with a smile, 
Saw Freedom weeping o'er the unlinish'd pile ! 
Hence all the ills you suffer, hence remain 
Such galling fragments of that feudal chain, 1 
Whose links, around you by the Norman flung, 
Though loosed and broke so often, still have clung. 
Hence sly Prerogative, like Jove of old, 
Has turn'd his thunder into showers of gold, 
Whose silent courtship wins securer joys, 2 
Taints by degrees, and ruins without noise. 



take effect till after the decease of the latter sovereign, and 
she very considerately repealed it altogether. So that, as 
representation has continued ever since, if the King were 
6inipie enough to send to foreign courts ambassadors who 
were mosi of them in the pay or those courts, he would be 
just as faithfully represented as his people. It \\ou:d be 
endless to enumerate all the favours which were conferred 
upon William by those "apostate Wings." They compl 
mented him with the first suspension of the Habeas Corpus 
Act which had been hazarded since the confirmation of that 
privilege; and this example of our Deliverer's reign has not 
been lost upon any of his successors. They promoted the 
establishment of a standing army, and circulated in its de- 
fence the celebrated "Balancing Letter," in which it is 
insinuated that England, even then, in her boasted hour of 
regeneration, was arrived at such a pitch of faction and cor- 
ruption, that nothing could keep her in older but a Whig 
ministry and a standing army. They refused, as long as 
they could, to shorten the duration of Parliaments, and, 
though the declaration of rights acknowledged the necessity 
of such a reform, they were able, by arts not unknown to 
modern ministers, to brand those as traitors and republicans 
who urged il.(«) But the grand and distinguishing trait of 
their measures was the power which they gave to theCrown 
of annihilating the freedom of elections, of muddying for 
ever that stream of representation, which had, even in the 
most agitated times, reflected some features of the people, 
but which then, for the first time, became the Paclolus of 
the Court, and grew so darkened with sands of gold, that it 
Berved for the people's mirror no longer. We need but con- 
sult the writings of that time, to understand the astonish- 
ment !hen excited by measures, which the practice of a cen- 
tury has rendered not only familiar but necessary. See a 
pamphlet called "The Danger of mercenary Parliaments," 
1698; State Tracts, Will. III. vol. it. p. 638; and see als 
" Some Paradoxes presented as a New Year's Gift." (Slate 
Poems, vol. iii. p. 3-27.) 

1 The last great wound given to the feudal system was 
the Act of the 12th of Charles II. which abolished the tenure 
of knights' service in capitc, and which Bluckstone com- 
pares, for its salutary influence upon property, to the boasted 
provisions of Magna Charta itself. Yet even in this Act we 
see the effects of that counteracting spirit, that Arimanius, 
which has weakend every effort of the English nation to- 
wards liberty, which allowed but half the errors of Popery 
to he removed at the Reformation, and which planted more 
abuses than it suffered to be rooted out at the Revolution. 
The exclusion of copyholders from their share of elective 
rights was permitted to remain as a brand of feudal servi- 
tude, and as an obstacle to the rise of that strong counter- 
balance which an equal representation of property would 
oppose to the weight of the Crown. If the managers of the 
Revolution had been sincere in their wishes for reform, they 
would not only have taken this fetter off the rights of elec- 
tion, but they would have renewed the mode adopted in 
Cromwell's time of increasing the number of knights of the 
shire, to the exclusion of those rotten insignificant boroughs, 
which have tainted the whole mass of the constitution. 
Lord Clarendon calls this measure of Cromwell's "an al- 
teration fit to be more warrantably made, and in a better 
time." It formed part of Mr. Pitt's plan in 1783; but Mr. 
Pitt's plan of reform was a kind of dramatic piece, about 
as likely to be acted as Mr. Sheridan's " Foresters." 

2 fore enim tutum iter et patens, 

Converso in pretium Deo. 
Aurum per medios ire satellites, 

,a) See a Pamphlet, published in 1603, upon the King's 
refusing to sign the Triennial Bill, called " A Discourse be- 
tween a Yeoman of Kent and a Knight of a Shire." — 
u Hereupon (says the Yeoman) the gentleman grew angry, 
and said that I talked like a base commonwealth mao." 



While Parliaments, no more those sacred things 
Which make and rule the destiny of Kings, 
Like loaded dice by ministers are thrown, 
And each new set of sharpers cog their own ? 
Hence the rich oil, that from the Treasury steals 
And drips o'er all the Constitution's wheels, 
Giving the old machine such pliant play, 1 
That Court and Commons jog one jotless way 
While Wisdom trembles for the crazy car, 
So gilt, so rotten, carrying fools so far! 



Et perrumpere amat saxa, potentius, 
Ictu fulmmeo. Horat. lib. iii. od. 16. 

The Athenians considered seduction so much more dan- 
Serous than force, that the penalty for rape was merely a 
pecuniary fine, while the guilt of seduction was punished 
with death. And though it must be owned that, during the 
reign of that ravisher, Prerogative, the poor Constitution 
was treated like Miss Cuneguud amone the Bulgarians; yrt 
1 agree with the principle of the Athenian law, that her pre- 
sent state of willing self-abandonment is much more hope- 
less and irreclaimable, and calls for a more signal vengeance 
upon her seducers. 

It would be amusing to trace the history of Prerogative 
from the date of its strength under the Tudor princes, when 
Henry VII. and his successors "taught the people (as .Na- 
thaniel Bacon says)(a) to dance to the tune of Allegiance," 
to the period of the Revolution,, when the Throne, in its 
attacks upon liberty, began to exchange the noisy explosions 
of Prerogative for the silent and effectual air-gun of Influ- 
ence. In considering it too since that memorable era, .we 
shall find that, while the royal power has been abridged in 
branches where it might be made conducive to the interests 
of the people, it has been left in full and unshackled vigour 
against almost every point where the integrity of the con- 
stitution is vulnerable. For instance, the power of charter- 
ing boroughs, to whose capricious abuse in the hands of the 
Smarts we are indebted for most of the present anomalies of 
representation, might, if suffered to remain, have in soma 
degree atoned for its mischief by restoring the old unchar- 
tered boroughs to their rights, and widening more equally 
the basis of the legislature. But, by the Act of Union with 
Scotland, this part of the prerogative was removed, lest 
Liberty should have a chance of being healed even by the 
rust of the spear which had wounded her. The power, 
however, of creating peers, which has generally been exer- 
cised/or the government against the constitution, is left in 
free, unqualified activity; notwithstanding the example of 
that celebrated Bill for the limitation of "this ever-budding 
branch of prerogative, which was proposed in the reign o? 
George I. under the peculiar sanction and recommendation 
of the Court, but which the Whigs rejected with that clw- 
racteristic delicacy, which has generally prevented them, 
when in office themselves, from taking any uncourtly ad van- 
tage of the Throne. It will be recollected, however, that 
the creation of the twelve peers by the Tories in Anne's 
reign (a measure which Swift, like a true party man, de 
fends,) gave these upright Whigs all possible alarm for their 
liberties. 

With regard to this generous fit about his prerogative 
which seized the good king George I., historians have said 
that the paroxysm originated more in hatred to his son than 
in love to the constitution: (b) but no person acquainted 
with the annals of the three Georges, could possibly suspect 
any one of those gracious Monarchs either of ill-will to his 
heir, or indifference for the constitution. 

1 "They drove so fast (says Wclwood of the Ministers 
of Charles I.,) that it was no wonder that Ihe wheels and 
chariot broke." (Memoirs, p. 35.) — But this fatal acciden'., 
if we may judge from experience, is to be imputed less to 
the folly and impetuosity of the drivers, than to the want of 
that suppling oil from the Treasury which has been found 
so necessary to make a government like that of England run 
smoothly. If Charles had been as well provided with this 
article as his successors have been since the happy Revolu- 
tion, his Commons would never have merited from the Throne 
the harsh appellation of "seditious vipers," but would have 
been (as they are now, and I trust always will be) "dutiful 
Commons," — "loyal Commons," etc. etc. and would have 
given him ship-money, or any other sort of money he might 
take a fancy to. 

(a) Historic, and Politic. Discourse, etc. part ii. p. 114 

(b) Coxe says that this Bill was projected by Sunderland 



CORRUPTION. 



22 



And the duped people, hourly doom'd to pay 
The sums that bribe their liberties away, 1 
Like a young eagle, who has lent his plume 
To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom, 
See their own leathers pluck d, to wing the dart 
Which rank corruption destines for their heart ! 



1 The period that immediately succeeds a coronation has 
been called very aptly the Honey-moon of a reign; and il 
p ise the Throne to be the wife, and the People the 
husband, (a) I know no better model of a matrimonial trans- 
action, nor one that I would sooner recommend to a woman 
af spirit, than that winch the arrangements of l. 
In the firsl place, she must not only obtain from her husband, 
an allowance of pin-money or civil-list establishment, suf- 
ficient to render her independent of his caprice, but she must 
also prevail on him to make her the steward of his estates, 
and to intrust her with the management of all his pecuniary 
concerns. I need not teil a woman of sense to what spirited 
uses she may turn such concessions. He will soon become 
60 tame and docile under her hands, that she may make him 
play the strangest and most amusing tricks, suoh as quarrel- 
ling with his nearest and dearest relations about a dish of 
tea, (A) a turban, (c) or a warfare ;(</) preparing his house for 
del- nee against robbers, by putting fetters and handcuffs on 
two-thirds of its inmates; employing C-nn — g and P-rc-v-I 
in his sickest moments to read to him alternately Joe Miller 
and the Catechism, with a thousand other diverting incon- 
sistencies. If her spouse have still enough of sense remain- 
ing to grumble at the ridiculous exhibition which she miikes 
of him, let her withhold from him now and then the rights 
of the Habeas Corpus Act (a mode of proceeding which the 
women of Athens once adopted,) (c) and if the good man 
.oves such privileges, the interruption will soon restore him 
.o submission. If his former wife were a Pa;>ist, or had any 
tendency that way, I would advise my fair Sovereign, when- 
ever he begins toargue with her unpleasantly, to shout out 
'No Popery, no Popery!" as loud as she can, into his ears, 
and it is astonishing what an effect it will have in disconcert- 
ing all his arguments. This method was tried lately by an 
old woman of Northampton, and with much success. Seri- 
ously, this convenient bugbear of Popery is by no means the 
east among the numberless auxiliaries which the Revolution 
has marshalled on the side of the Throne. — Those unskilful 
tyrants, Charles and James, instead of profiting wisely by 
that useful subserviency which has always distinguished the 
ministers of our religious establishment, were blind enough 
to plan the ruin of this best bulwark of their power, and 
connected their designs upon the Church so closely with 
their attacks upon the Constitution, that they identified in 
the minds of the people the interests of their religion and 
their liberties. During those times, therefore, " No Popery" 
was the watchword of freedom, and served to keep the pub- 
lic spirit awake against the invasions of bigotry and prero- 
gative. The Revolution, however, by removing this object 
of jealousy, has produced a reliance on the orthodoxy of 
the' Throne, of which the Throne has not. failed to take every 
possible advantage, and the cry of "No Popery" having, by 
this means, lost its power of alarming the people against the 
encroachments of the Crown, has served ever since the very 
different purpose of strengthening the Crown against the 
claims and struggles of the people. The danger of the 
Church from Papists and Pretenders was the chief pretext 
for the repeal of the Triennial Bill, for the adoption of a 
standing army, for the numerous suspensions of the Habeas 
Corpus Act, and, in short, for all those spirited infractions 
of the constitution by which the reigns of the last century 
were so eminently distinguished. We have seen too, very 
lately, how the same scarecrow alarm has enabled the 
Throne to select its ministers from men, whose servility is 
their only claim to elevation, and who are pledged (if such 
an alternative could arise) to take part with the scruples of 
the King against the salvation of the empire. 

(a) This is contrary to tho symbolical language of pro- 
phecy, in which (according <o Sir Isaac Newton) the King 
is the husband, and the people the wife. See Faber, on the 
Prophecies. — I would be? leave to suggest to Mr. Faber, that 
his friend Sir R-ch — d M-sgr-ve can, in bis own proper per- 
son, supply him with an exposition of " the Horns of the 
Beast." 

(b) America. (c) India. (d) Ireland. 

(e) See the Lysistrata of Aristophanes. — The following 
's the form of suspension, as he gives it: 
Ottsjs xv aevtjp 67r»Tu^>)) /axKuttx jttoo 
KcvSivoS' skovt* t' xvipt tm' (am yrenroftxt 



But soft ! my friend — I hear thee proudly say, 

" What ! shall I listen to the impious lay, 

That dares, with Tory license, to profane 

The bright bequests of William's glorious reign ? 

Shall the great wisdom of our patriot sires, 

Whom II — wk — sb — y quotes and savoury B — rch 

admires, 
Be slander'd thus ? shall honest St — le agreo 
With virtuous R — se to call us pure and free, 
Yet fail to prove it? Shall our patent pair 
Of wise State-Poets waste their words in air, 
And P — e unheeded breathe his prosperous strain, 
And C — nn — ng take the people's sense in van ?"' 

The people ! — ah ! that Freedom's form should stay 
Where Freedom's Spirit long hath pass'd away ' 
That a false 9mile should play around the dead, 
And flush the features where the soul has Mad ! 2 
When Rome had lost her virtue with her rights, 
When her foul tyrant sat on Capreae's heights 3 
Amid his ruffian spies, and doom'd to death 
Each noble name they blasted with their breath ! 
Even then (in mockery of that golden time, 
When the Republic rose revered, su'ohme, 
And her free sons, diffused from zone to zone, 
Gave kings to every country but their own,) 
Even then the Senate and the Tribunes stood, 
Insulting marks, to show how Freedom's flood 
Had dared to flow, in glory's radiant day, 
And how it ebb'd, for ever ebb'd away ! 4 



1 Somebody has said " Quand tous les Poe'tes seraien 
noyes, ce ne serait pas grand dommage;" but I am aware 
that this would be most Uncivil language at a time 
birth-day odes and state-papers are written by such pretty 
poets as Mr. P-e and Mr. C-nn-ng. I can assure the latter. 
too, that I think him (like his water-proof colleague Lord 
C-sti-r-gh) reserved for a very different fate from that 
which the author I have just quoted imagines for his poeti- 
cal fraternity. All I wish is, that he would change places 
with bis broiher P-e, by which means we should ha 

what less prose in our odes, and certainly less poetry in our 
politics. 

2 "It is a scandal (said Sir Charles Sedley in William' 
reign) that a Government so sick at heart as ours is, should 
look so well in the face;" and Edmund Burke has said, in 
the present reign, " When the people conceive that laws 
and tribunals, and even popular assemblies, are perverted 
from the ends of their institution, they find in these names 
of degenerated establishments only new motives to discon- 
tent. Those bodies which, when full of life and beauty, lay 
in their arms and were their joy and comfort, when dead 
and putrid become more loathsome from the remembrance 
of former endearments." — Thoughts on the present Dis 
contents, 1770. 

3 tutor haberi 

Principis, Augusta Caproarum in rupe sedentis 
Cum grege Chaldieo. Juvenal. Sat. x. v. G2. 

The senate still continued, during the reign of Tiberius, to 
manage all (lie business of the public ; the money was then 
and long after coined by their authority, and every other 
public affair received their sanction. 

We are told by Tacitus of a certain race of men, who 
were particularly useful to the Roman Emperors; they 
were called " Instrumenta regni," or "Court Tools," from 
which it appears, that, my Lords M-lgr-vo, Ch-lh-m, etc 
etc. are by no means things of modern invention. 

4 There is something very touching in what Tacitus tells 
us of the hopes that revived in a few patriot bosoms, when 
the death of Augustus was near approaching, and the fond 
expectation withwhich they began "bona libertatis lncas 
sum disserere." 

Ferguson says, that Caesar's interference with the rights 
of election " made the subversion of the Republic more feit 
than any of the former acts of his power " — Roman Re- 
public, book v. chap. 1 



222 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Oh ! look around — though yet a tyrant's sword 

Nor haunts your sleep nor trembles o er your board, 

Though blood be better drawn by modern quacks 

With Treasury leeches than with sword or axe ; 

Yet say, could even a prostrate Tribune's power, 

Or a mock Senate, in Rome's servile hour, 

Insult so much the rights, the claims of man, 

As doth that fetter'd mob, that free divan, 

Of noble tools and honourable knaves, 

Of pension' d patriots and privileged slaves 1 

That party-colour' d mass, which nought can warm 

But quick Corruption's heat — whose ready swarm 

Spread their light wings in Bribery's golden sky, 

Buzz for a period, lay their eggs, and die ! 

That greedy vampire, which from Freedom's tomb 

Comes forth with all the mimicry of bloom 

Upon its lifeless cheek, and sucks and drains 

A people's blood to feed its putrid veins ! — 

1 Heavens, what a picture !"— yes, my friend, H is 

dark — 
" But can no light be found, no genuine spark 
Of former fire to warm us ? Is there none 
To act a Marvell's part ?"' — I fear, not one. 
To place and power all public spirit tends, 
In place and power all public spirit ends ; 2 
Like hardy plants, that love the air and sky, 
When out, 't will thrive, but taken in, 't will die ! 

Not bolder truths of sacred freedom hung 
From Sidney's pen or burn'd on Fox's tongue, 
Than upstart Whigs produce each market-night, 
While yet their conscience, as their purse, is light ; 
While debts at home excite thfeir care for those 
Which, dire to tell, their much-loved country owes, 
And loud and upright, till their price be known, 
They thwart the King's supplies to raise their own — 
But bees, on flowers alighting, cease their hum — 
So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb ! 
And though I feel as if indignant Heaven 
Must think that wretch too foul to be forgiven, 
Who basely hangs the bright, protecting shade 
Of Freedom's ensign o'er Corruption's trade, 3 
And makes the sacred flag he dares to show 
His passport to the market of her foe !— 



1 Andrew Marvell, (he honest opposer of the court during 
the reign of Charles the Second, and the last Member of 
Parliament who, according to the ancient mode, took wages 
from his'constituents. How very much the Commons have 
changed their pay-masters ! — See the State-Poems for some 
rude but spirited effusions of Andrew Marvell. 

2 The following artless speech of Sir Francis Winning- 
ton, in the reign of Charles the Second, will amuse those 
who are fully aware <l of the perfection which we have at- 
tained in that system of Government whose humble begin- 
nings' seem to have astonished the worthy Baronet so much. 
" I did observe (says he) that all those who had pensions, 
and most of those who had offices, voted all of a side, as 
they were directed by some great officer, exactly as if their 
business in this House had been to preserve their pensions 
and offices, and not to make laws for the good of them who 
sent them here." — He alludes to that Parliament which was 
called, par excellence, the Pensionary Parliament! a dis- 
tinction, however, which it has long lost, and which we 
merely give it from old custom, just as we say The Irish Re- 
Dcllion. 

3 " While they promise them liberty, they themselves are 
the servants of corruption." 2 Pet. ii. — I suggest, with 
much deference, to the expounders of Scripture-Prophecy, 
whether Mr. C-nn-ng is not at present fulfilling the prediction 
of "the scoffers," who were to come "in the last days." 



Yet, yet I own, so venerably dear 

Are Freedom's grave old anthems to mv ear, 

That I enjoy them, though by rascals sung, 

And reverence Scripture even from Satan's tongue 

Nay, when the Constitution has expired, 

I'll have such men, like Irish wakers, hired 

To sing old Habeas Corpus by its side, 

And ask, in purchased ditties, why it died? 1 

See that smooth Lord, w r hom nature's plastic pains 

Seem'd to have destined for those Eastern reigns 

When eunuchs flourish' d, and when nervelsss things 

That men rejected were the choice of Kings. 2 

Even he, forsooth (oh, mockery accurst !) 

Dared to assume the patriot's name at first — 3 

Thus Pitt began, and thus begin his apes ; 

Thus devils, when Jirst rais'd, take pleasing shapes— 

But oh, poor Ireland ! if revenge be sweet 

For centuries of wrong, for dark deceit 

And withering insult — for the Union thrown 

Into thy bitter cup, 4 when that alone 

Of slavery's draught was wanting 5 — if for this 

Revenge be sweet, thou hast that demon's bliss ; 



1 I believe it is in following the corpse to the giave, and 
not at the wakes (as we call the watching of the dead,) fhat 
this elegiac howl of my countrymen is performed. Spenser 
says, that our howl "is heathenish, and proceeds from a 
despair of salvation." If so, I think England may join in 
chorus with us at present. — The Abbe de Motraye tells us, 
that the Jews in the East address their dead in a similar 
manner, and say, " Hu ! Hu ! Hu ! why did you die 1 Hadn't 
you a wife? Had'nt you a long pipe 1" etc. etc. (See hig 
Travels.) I thought for a long time with Vallancey, that 
we were a colony of Carthaginians; but from this passage 
of de Motraye, and from the way in which Mr. P-rc-v-f 
would have us treated, I begin to suspect we are no better, 
than Jews. 

2 According to Xenophon, the chief circumstance which 
recommended eunuchs to the service of Eastern princes, 
was the ignominious station which they held in society, and 
the probability of their being, upon this account, more de- 
voted to the will and caprice of a master, from whose notice 
alone they derived consideration, and in whose favour they 
found a refuge from the contempt of mankind. AJogoi 
ovts; oi eoi'0u%0« srxpa, toij etXKoig ccvipooTroig xs«J St* 
touto £so-5r<3Tou 67r(xoupou Ts-poo-Sio vTott. (a) — But I doubt 
whether even an Eastern Prince would have chosen an en 
tire Administration upon this principle. 

3 Does Lord C-stl-r — gh remember the reforming Resolu- 
tions of his early days? 

4 " And in the cup an Union shall be thrown." 

Hamlet. 
Three Cs were branded in the Sibylline books, as fatal to 
the peace and liberties of Rome. Tp<* xxTrvrx, xmx«o-t» 
(Cornelius Sylla, Cornelius Cinna, and Cornelius Lentulus.) 
(b) And three Cs will be remembered in Ireland as long as 
C-md-n and cruelty, Cl-re and corruption, C-stl-r — gh and 
contempt, are alliteratively and appropriately associated. 

5 Among the many measures which, since the Revolu- 
tion, have contributed to increase the influence of the 
Throne, and to feed up this "Aaron's serpent of the con- 
stitution to its present healthy and respectable magnitude, 
there have been few more nutritive than the Scotch and 
Irish Unions. Sir John Parker said, in a debate upon the 
former question, that "he would submit it to ihe House, 
whether men who had basely betrayed their trust, by giving 
up their independent constitution, were fit to be admitted 
into the English House of Commons." But Sir John wou! 3 
have known, if he had not been out of place at the timo, 
that the pliancy of such materials was not among the lea 4 
of their recommendations. Indeed the promoters of the 
Scotch Union were by no means disappointed in the lead- 
ing object of their measure, for the triumphant majorities of 
the Court-party in Parliament may be dated from the ad 
mission of the 45 and the 16. Once or twice, upon the altera 

(a) See a pamphlet on the Union, by "a Philosopher " 

(b) See a Treatise by Pontus De Thiard, " De recta No« 
minum Impositione," p. 4? 



INTOLERANCE. 



223 



For oh ! 't is more than hell's revenge to see 
That England trusts the men who 've ruin'd thee ! 
That, in these awful days, when every hour 
Creates some new or blasts some ancient power, 
When proud Napoleon, like the burning shield 1 
Whose light compell'd each wondering foe to yield, 
With baleful lustre blinds the brave and free, 
And dazzles Europe into slavery ! 
That, in this hour, when patriot zeal should guide, 
When Mind should rule, and — Fox should not have 

died, 
All that devoted England can oppose 
To enemies made fiends, and friends made foes, 
Is the rank refuse, the despised remains 2 
Of that unpitying power, whose whips and chains 
Made Ireland first, in wild, adulterous trance, 
Turn false to England's bed, and whore with 

France ! — 
Those hack'd and tainted tools, so foully fit 
For the grand artizan of mischief, P-tt, 
So useless ever but in vile employ, 
So weak to save, so vigorous to destroy ! 
Such are the men that guard thy threaten'd shore, 
Oh England! sinking England! 3 boast no more. 



tion of their law of treason and the imposition of the malt- 
tax (measures which were in direct violation of the Act of 
Union,) these worthy North Britons arrayed themselves in 
opposition to the Court; but finding this effort for their 
c«untrv unavailing, they prudently determined to think 
thenceforward of themselves, and tew men have kept to a 
laudable resolution more firmly. — The effect of Irish repre- 
sentation upou the liberties of England will be no less per- 
ceptible and no less permanent. 

OuJ' oye TATPOT 

Astral ANTEAAONTOS. (a) 

The infusion of such cheap and useful ingredients as my 
Lord L-mr-ck, Mr. D-nn-s Br-wne, etc. etc. into the Legis- 
lative, must act as a powerful alterative on the Constitution, 
and clear it by degrees of all the troublesome humours of 
honesty. 

1 The magician's shield in Ariosto : — 

E tolto per vertii dello splendore 
La libertate a lora. Cant. 2. 
We are told that Caesar's code of morality was contained 
in the following lines of Euripides, which that great man 
very frequently repeated : 

Et7TEp yxp aSixstv %p>) Tvp&wiSog -cspi 
KxKKhttov «J»x£»v TaW:* d' ev<rtS.siv xpeaiv. 

This appears to be also the moral code of Bonaparte. 

2 When the Duke of Buckingham was assassinated, 
Charles flie First, as a tribute to his memory, continued all 
his creatures in the same posts and favours which they had 
enjoyed under their patron ; and much in the same manner 
do we see the country sacrificed to the manes of a Minister 
at present. 

It is invidious perhaps to look for parallels in the reign 
of Charles the First, but the expedient of threatening 
the Commons with dissolution, which has lately been played 
off with much eclat, appears to have been "frequently re- 
sorted to at that period. In one instance Hume tells us, 
that the King sent his Lord Keeper {not his Jester) to me- 
nace the House, that, unless they despatched a certain Bill 
for subsidies, they must expect to sit no longer. By similar 
threats the excise upon beer and ale was carried in Charles 
the Second's reign. It is edifying to know, that though Mr. 
C-nn-ng despises Puffendorf, he has no objection to prece- 
dents derived from the Court of the Stuarts. 

3 The followin? prophetic remarks occur in a letter written 
by Sir Robert Talbot, who attended ihe Duke of Bedford to 
Faris in 1762. Talking of states which have grown power- 

(a) From Aratus (v. 715,) a poet who wrote upon astro- 
nomy, though, as Cicero assures us, he knew nothing what- 
ever about the subject — just as the great Harvey wrote 
" De Generation," though he had as little to do with the 
matter as my Lord Viscount C 



INTOLERANCE. 

PART THE FIRST 



" This clamour, which pretends to be raised Tor the safef 
of Religion, has almost worn out the very appearance of it 
and rendered us not only the most divided but the most im 
moral people upon the face of the earth."— Addison, Free 
holder, No. 37. 



Start not, my Friend, nor think the Muse will stain 
Her classic fingers with the dust profane 
Of Bulls, Decrees, and fulminating scrolls, 
That took such freedom once with royal souls, 1 



ful in commerce, he says, "According to the nature and 
common course of things, there is a confederacy 
them, and consequently in the same proportion as they in- 
crease in riches, they approach to destruction. The address 
of our King William, in making all Europe take the ;;larm 
at France, has brought that country befoie us near that ine- 
vitable period. We must necessarily have our turn, and 
Great Britain will attain it as soon as France shall have a 
deciaimer with organs as proper for that political purpose 
as were those of our William the Third With- 
out doubt, my Lord, Great Britain must lower her flight 
Europe will remind us of the balance of commerce, as she 
has reminded France of the balance of power. The ad- 
dress of our statesmen will immortalize them by contriving 
for us a descent which shall not. he a fall, by making us 
rather resemble Holland than Carthage and Venice." — ^Let- 
ters on the French Nation. 

1 The king-deposing doctrine, notwithstanding its many 
mischievous absurdities, was of no little service to the cause 
of political liberty, by inculcating the right of resistance to 
tyrants, and asserting the will of the people to be the only 
true fountain of power. Bellarmine, the most violent of the, 
advocates for papal authority, was one of the first to main- 
tain (see De Pontif. lib. i. cap. 7,) "That Kings have not 
their authority or office immediately from God nor his law, 
but only from the law of nations;" and in Kins' James's 
"Defence of the Rights of Kings against Cardinal Perron," 
we find his Majesty expressing strong indignation against 
the Cardinal for having asserted " ti at to the deposing of a 
King the consent of the people must be obtained" — " for by 
these words (says James) the people are exalted above the 
King, and made the judges of the King's deposing." p. 424. 
— Even in Mariana's celebrated book, where the" nonsense 
of bigotry does not interfere, there are some liberal and en- 
lightened ideas of government, of the restraints which should 
be imposed upon Royal power, of the subordination cf the 
Throne to the interests of the people, etc. etc. (De Eege et 
Regis Institutione. See particularly lib. i. cap. fi. 8, and 
9.) — It is rather remarkable, too, that England should be 
indebted to another Jesuit, for the earliest defence of that 
principle upon which the Revolution was founded, namely, 
the right of the people to change the succession. — (See 
Doleman's "Conferences," Written in support of the title of 
the Infanta of Spain against that of James I.) — When Eng- 
lishmen, therefore, say that popery is the religion of slavery, 
they should not only recollect that their boasted Constitution 
is the work and bequest of Popish ancestors ; they should 
not onlv remember the laws of Edward III. "under whom 
(says Bolingbroke) the constitution of our Parliaments, and 
the whole form of our Government, became reduced into 
better form;" but they should know that even the errors of 
Popery have leaned to the cause of liberty, and that Papists, 
however mistaken their motives may have been, were the 
first promulgators of the doctrines which led to the Revolu- 
tion. — But, in truth, the political principles of the Roman 
Catholics have generally been made to suit the convenience 
of their oppressors, and they have been represented alter- 
nately as slavish or refractory, according as a pretext for 
tormenting them was wanting. The same ^consistency 
has marked every other imputation against * hem. They 
are charged with laxity in the observance of oaths, though 
an oath has been found sufficient to shut them from all 
worldly advantages. If they reject some decisions of their 
church, they are said to be sceptics and bad Christians : i/ 



224 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



When Heaven was yet the Pope's exclusive trade, 

And Kings were da?nn , d as fast as now they're made! 

No, no — let D — gen-n search the Papal chair 1 

For fragrant treasures long forgotten there ; 

And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks 

That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks, 

Let sallow P-rc-v-1 snuff up the gale 

Which wizard D — gen-n's gather'd sweets exhale . 

Enough for me, whose heart has learn'd to scorn 

Bigots alike in Rome or England born, 

Who loathe the venom, whencesoe'er it springs, 

From Popes or Lawyers, 2 Pastiy-cooks or Kings ; 

Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns, 

As mirth provokes, or indignation burns, 

As C- nn-ng vapours, or as France succeeds, 

As H-wk-sb'ry proses, or as Ireland bleeds ! 

And thou, my Friend — if, in these headlong days, 

When bigot Zeal her drunken antics plaj's 

So near a precipice, that men the while 

Look breathless on and shudder while they smile — 

If, in such fearful days, thou'lt dare to look 

To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook 

Which Heaven has freed from poisonous things in 

vain 
While G-ff-rd's tongue and M-sgr-ve's pen remain — 
If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got 
To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot, 
Whose wrongs, though blazon'd o'er the world they 

be, 
Placemen alone are privileged not to see — 
Oh ! turn awhile, and, though the shamrock wreathes 
My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes 
Of Ireland's slavery, and of Ireland's woes, 
Live, when the memory of her tyrant foes 
Shall but exist, all future knaves to warn, 
Embalm'd in hate and canonized by scorn ! 
When C-stl-r — gh, 3 in sleep still more profound 
Than his own opiate tongue now deals around, 
Shall wait the impeachment of that awful day 
Which even his practised hand can't bribe away ! 



they admit those very decisions, they are branded as bigots 
and bad subjects. We are told iliat confidence and kind- 
ness wil' make them enemies to the Government, though we 
know that exclusion and injuries have with difficulty -pre- 
vented them from being its friends. In short, nothing can 
brrttet illustrate the misery of those shifts and evasions by 
which a long course of cowardly injustice must be support- 
ed, than the whole history of Great Britain's conduct towards 
the Catholic part of her'empire. 

1 The "Sella Stcrcoraria" of the Popes.— The Right 
Honourable and learned Doctor will find an engraving of 
this chair in Spanheim's " Disquisitio Historica de Papa 
Fcemina," (p. 118;) and I recommend it as a model for the 
fashion of that sent which the Doctor is about to take in the 
Fri»y-Council of Ireland. 

2 When Innocent X. was entreated to decide the con- 
troversy between the Jesuits and the Jansenists, he an- 
swered, that "he had been bred a Lawyer, and had there- 
fore nothing to do with divinity."— It were to be wished that. 
some 'four English pettifoggers knew their element as well 
as Pope innocent X. 

3 The breach of faith which the managers of the Irish 
Union have been guilty of, in disappointing those hopes of 
emancipation which they excited in the bosoms of the 
Catholics, is no new trait in the annals of English policy. 
A similar deceit was practised to facilitate the Union with 
Scotland, and hopes were held out of exemption from the 
Corporation and Test Acts, in order to divert the Parlia- 
ment of that country from encumbering the measure with 
•av otipulation to that effect 



And oh !my friend, wert thou but near me now, 
To see the spring diffuse o'er Erin's brow 
Smiles that shine out, unconquerably fair, 
Even through the blood-marks left by G'-md-n 1 there 
Couldst thou but see what verdure paints the sod 
Which none but tyrants and their slaves have >rod, 
And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave, 
That warms the soul of each insulted slave, 
Who, tired with struggling, sinks beneath his lot, 
And seems by all but watchful France forgot — 2 
Thy heart would burn — yes, even thy Pittite heart * 
Would burn, to think that such a blooming-part 
Of the world's garden, rich in Nature's charms, 
And fill'd with social souls and vigorous arms, 
Should be the victim of that canting crew, 
So smooth, so godly, yet so devilish too, 
Who, arm'd at once with prayer-books and with 

whips, 3 
Blood on their hands, and Scripture on their lips, 



1 Not the C-md-n who speaks thus of Ireland : 
"Atque uno verbo dicam, sive Iernes fecunditatem, sive 

maris et portuum opportunitatem, sive incolus respicies eui 
belhcosi sunt, ingeniosi, corporum lineameitis conspicui 
mirifica carnis mollitie et propter musculorum teneritatem 
agilitate incredibili, a multis dotibus ita felix est insula, ul 
non male dixerit Gyraldus, 'naturam hoc Zephyri regnum 
benigniori oculo respexisse.' " 

2 The example of tole'ation, which Bonaparte has given, 
will produce, I fear, no other effect than that of determining 
the Briti.-h Government to persist, from the very spiiit of 
opposition, in their own old system of intolerance find ii jus- 
tice; just as the Siamese blacken their teeth, " became," 
as they say, "the devil has white ones." (a) 

3 One of the unhappy results of the controversy between 
Protestants and Catholics, is the mutual exposure which 
their criminations and recriminations have produced. In 
vain do the Protestants charge the Papists with closing the 
door of salvation upon others, while many of their own 
writings and articles breathe the same uncharitable spirit. 
No canon of Constance or Lateran ever damned heretics 
more effectually than the eighth of the Thirty-nine Articles 
consigns to perdition every single member of the Greek 
church, and I doubt whether a more sweeping clause c? 
damnation was ever proposed in the most bigoted council, 
than that which the Calvinistic theory of predestination in 
the seventeenth of these Articles exhibits. It is true that no 
liberal Protestant avows such exclusive opinions; thai every 
honest clergyman must feel a pang while he subscribes to 
them; that some even assort the Athanasian Creed to be the 
forgery of one V ; gilius Tapsensis, in the beginning of the 
sixth century, and that eminent divines, like Jortin, have not 
hesitated to say, "There are propositions contained in our 
Liturgy and Articles, which- no man of common sense 
amongst us believes. "(i) But while ali this is freely con- 
ceded to Protestants; while nobody doubts their sincerity, 
when they declare that their articles are not essentials of 
faith, but a collection of opinions which have been promul 
sated by fallible men, and from many of which they feel 
themselves justified in dissenting, — while so much liberty of 
retraction is allowed to Protestants upon their own declared 
and subscribed Articles of religion, is it. not strange that a 
similar indulgence should be refused, with such inconvinci 
ble obstinacy, to the Catholics, upon tenets which their 
church has uniformlv resisted and condemned, in every 
country where it has flourished independently 1 When the 
Catholics say, "The decree of the council of Later-tn, 
which you object to us, has no claim whatever upon eithei 
our faith or our reason: it did not even profess to contain 
any doctrinal decision, but was merely a judicial proceeding 
of that assembly; and it would be as fair for us to impute a 
wife-killing doetrine to the Protestants, because their first 
Pope, Henry VIII. was sanctioned in an indulgence of that 
propensity, as for von to conclude that we have inherited a 
kin^-deposins: taste from the act? of the Council of Lateran, 
or the secular pretensions of our Popes. _ With respect, too 
to the Decree of the Council of Constance, upon the strength 

(n) See l'Histoire Naturelle et Polit. du Royaume d) 
Siam, etc. 

(&) Strictures on the Articles. Subscriptions, etc. 



INTOLERANCE. 



225 



Tyrants by creed, and torturers by text, 
Make this life hell, in honour of the next 
Your R-desd-les, P-rc-v-ls, — oh, gracious Heaven \ 
If I'm presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven, 
When here I swear, by my soul's hope of rest, 
I'd rather have been born, ere man was blest 
With the pure dawn of Revelation's light, 
Yes ! — rather plunge me back in Pagan night 
And take my chance with Socrates for bliss, 1 
Than be the Christian of a faith like this, 
Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway, 
And in a convert mourns to lose a prey ; 
Which, binding polity in spiritual chains, 
And tainting piety with temporal stains, 2 



of which you accuse us of breaking faith with heretics, we 
do not hesitate to pronounce that Decree a calumnious for- 
gery, a forgery, too, so obvious and ill-fabricated, that none 
but our enemies have ever ventured to give it the slightest 
credit of authenticiiy." — When the Catholics make these 
declarations (and tjiey are almost weary with making them ;) 
when they show loo, by their conduct, that these declarations 
are sincere, and that their faith and morals are no more regu- 
lated by the absurd decrees of old councils and Popes, than 
their science is influenced by the Papal anathema against 
that Irishman, (a) who first found out the Antipodes: — is it 
not strange that so many still wilfully distrust what every 
gootl man is so much interested in believing ? That so 
many should prefer the dark-lantern of the loth century to 
the sunshine of intellect which has since spread over the 
world, and that every dabbler in theology, from Mr. Le Me 
turier down to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, should dare 
6o oppose the rubbish of Constance and Lateran to the 
brieht triumphant progress of justice, generosity, and truth ? 

1 There is a singular work " upon the Souls ot the Pa- 
gans," by one Franciscus Collius, in which he discusses, 
with much coolness and erudition, all the probable chances 
of salvation upon which a heathen philosopher may caicu- 

ate. He damns without much difficulty Socrates, Plato, 
etc. and the only one at whose fate he seems to hesitate 
is Pythagoras, in consideration of his golden thigh, and 
the many miracles which he performed ; but, having ba- 
Janced his claims a little, and finding reason to father all 
thes« miracles on the devil, he at length, in the twenty-fifth 
chapter, decides upon damning him also. (De Animis Paga- 
norum, lib. iv. cap. 20 and 25.)— Dante compromises the 
matter with the Pagans, and gives them a neutral territory 
or limbo of their own, where their employment, it must be 
owned, is not very enviable — " Senza speme vivemo in 
desio." Cant. iv. — Among the many errors imputed to Ori- 
gen, ho is accused of having denied the eternity of future 
punishment, and, if he never advanced a more irrational 
doctrine, we may forgive him. He went so far, however, as 
to include the devil himself in the general hell-delivery 
which he supposed would one day or other take place, and 
in this St. Auguslin thinks him rather too merciful — "Mise- 
ricordior profecto fuit Origenes, qui et ipsum diabolum," 
etc. (De Civ i tat. Dei, lib. xxi. cap. 17.) — St. Jerom says, 
that, according to Origen, "the devil, after a certain time, 
will be as well off as the angel Gabriel" — "Id ipsum fore 
Gahrielem quod diabolum." (See his Epistle to Pamma- 
chius.) But Halloix, in his Defence of Origen, denies that 
he had anv of this misplaced tenderness for the devil. — I 
take the liberty of recommending these notiticc upon dam- 
nation to the particular attention of the learned Chancellor 
of the Exchequer. 

2 Mr. Fox, in his Speech on the Repeal of the Test Act 
(1790,) condemns the intermixture of religion with the politi- 
cal constitution of a state: "What purpose (he asks) can 
it serve, except the baleful purpose of communicating and 
receiving contamination? Under such an alliance corrup- 
tion must alight upon the one, and slavery overwhelm the 
other." 

Locke, too, says of the connexion between Church and 
State, "The boundaries on both sides are fixed and im- 
movable. He jumbles heaven and earth together, the things 
most remote and opposite, who mixes these two-societies, 

(a) Virgiihis, surnamed Soli vagus, a native of Ireland, 
who maintained, in the 8th century, the dor-trine of the An- 
tipodes, and was anathematized accordingly by the Pope. 
John Scotus Efijjena, another Irishman, was the first that 
ever wrote against transubstantiation. 



Corrupts both State and Church, and makes an oath 
The knave and atheist's passport into both — 
Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know 
Nor bliss above nor liberty below, 
Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear, 
And, lest he 'scape hereafter, racks him here !' 



2F 



which are in their original, end, business, and in every thing, 
perfectly distinct and infinitely different from each other." — 
First Letter on Toleration. 

The corruption of Christianity may be dated from the 
period of its establishment under Constantino, nor could all 
the splendour which it then acquired atone for the peace and 
purity which it lost. 

1 I doubt whether, after all, there has not been a3 much 
bigotry among Protestants as among Papists. According 
to the hackneyed quotation — 

Iliacos intra muros peccatur el extra. 

The great champion of the Reformation, Melanchthon, 
whom Jortin calls "a divine of much mildness and good- 
nature" thus expresses his approbation of the burning of 
Servetus : " Legi (he says to Bullinger) quae de Serveti 
blasphemiis respondistis, et pietatem ac judicia vestra probo. 
Judico etiam scnatum Genevensem recte fecisse, quod ho- 
minem pertinacem et non omissurum blasphemias sustulit; 
ac miratus sum esse qui severitatem ill am improbent." — ■ 
I have great pleasure in contrasting with these "l.iild and 
good-natured" sentiments the following words of the Papist 
Baluze, in addressing his friend Conringins: " Interim arne- 
mus, mi Conringi, et tametsi diversas opiniones tuemur iff 
causa religionis, moribus tamen diversi non simus, qu. 
eadem literarum studia sectamur." — Herman. Conring 
Epistol. par. secund. p. 56. 

Hume tells us that the Commons, in the beginning of 
Charles the First's reign, "attacked Montague, one of the 
King's chaplains, on account of a moderate book which he 
had lately composed, and which, to their great disgust, 
saved virtuous Catholics, as well as other Christians, from 
eternal torments." — In the same manner a complaint was 
lodged before the Lords of the Council against that excel- 
lent writer Hooker, for having, in the Sermon against 
Popery, attempted to save many of his Popish ancestors for 
ignorance. — To these examples of Protestant toleration I 
shall beg leave to oppose the following extract from a letter 
of old Roger Ascham (the tutor of Queen Elizabeth,) which 
is preserved among the Harrington Papers, and was written 
in 15b'6, to the Earl of Leicester, complaining of the Arch- 
bishop Young, who had taken away his. prebend in the 
church of York : " Master Bourne (a) did never grieve me 
half so moche in offering me wrong, as Mr. Dudley and the 
Byshopp of York doe, in taking away my right. No 
byshopp in Q. Mary's time would have so dealt with me; 
not Mr. Bourne hymself, when Winchester lived, durst have 
so dealt with me.' For suchegood estimation in those dayes 
even the learnedest and wysest men, as Gardener and Car- 
dinal Poole, made of my poore service, that although they 
knewe perfectly that in religion, boih by open wrytinge and 
pryvie talke, I was contrarye unto them; yea, whtn Sir 
Francis Englefield byname did note me speciallye at the 
council-board, Gardener would not suffer me to be callec 
thither, nor touched ellswheare, saiinge suche words of me 
in a leltre, as, though lettres cannot, I blushe to write them 
to your Lordshipp. Winchester's good-will stoode not in 
speaking faire and wishing well, but he did in deede that for 
me, (b) whereby my wife and children shall live the better 
when I am gone." "(See Nugre Antiqute, vol. i. p. 98, P'J.) — 
If men who acted thus were bigots, what shall we call Mr 
P-rc-v-1 ? 

In SutclifFs "Survey of Poperv," there is the following 
assertion: " Papists, that positively hold the heretical and 
false doctrines of the modern church of Rome, cannot possi- 
bly be saved.' — As a contrast to this and other specimens 
of Protestant liberality, which it would be much more easy 
than pleasant to collect, I refer my reader to f he Declaration 
of Le Pere Co-traver, and, while he reads the sentiments ot 
this pious man upon toleration, I doubt not he will feel in- 
clined to exclaim with Bclsham, "Blush, ye Protestant! 
bigots! and be confounded at the comparison of your 
own wretched and malignant prejudices with the generous 

(a) Sir John Bourne, Principal Secretary of State to 
Queen Mary. 

(ft) By Gardener's favour Ascham long held his feliotr 
ship, though not resident. 



226 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Bat no— far other faith, far milder beams 
Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams 
His creed is writ on Mercy's page above, 
By the pure hands of all-atoning Love ! 
He weeps to see his soul's Religion twine 
The tyrant's sceptre with her wreath divine, 
And he, while round him sects and nations raise 
To the one God their varying notes of praise, 
Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be, 
That serves to swell the general harmony ! l 
Such was the spirit, grandly, gently bright, 
That fill'd, oh Fox ! thy peaceful soul with light ; 
While blandly spreading, like that orb of air 
Which folds our planet in its circling care, 
The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind 
Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind ! 
Last of the great, farewell ! — yet not the last — 
Though Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past, 
Ierne still one gleam of glory gives, 
And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives. 



APPENDIX. 



The following is part of a Preface which was in- 
tended by a friend and countryman of mine for a col- 
lection of Irish airs, to which he had adapted Eng- 
lish words. As it has never been published, and is 
not inapplicable to my subject, I shall take the liberty 
of subjoining it here. 

* * * * 

" Our history, for many centuries past, is creditable 
neither to our neighbours nor ourselves, and ought 
not to be read by any Irishman who wishes either to 
love England or to feel proud of Ireland. The loss 
of independence very early debased our character, 
and our feuds and rebellions, though- frequent and 
ferocious, but seldom displayed that generous spirit 
of enterprise with which the pride of an independent 
monarchy so long dignified the struggles of Scotland. 
It is true this island has given birth to heroes who, 
under more favourable circumstances, might have 
left in the hearts of their countrymen recollections as 
dear as those of a Bruce or a Wallace ; but success 
was wanting to consectate resistance, their cause 
was branded with the disheartening name of treason, 
and their oppressed country was such a blank among 
nations, that| like the adventures of those woods 
which Rinaldo wished to explore, the fame of their 
actions was lost in the obscurity of the place where 
they achieved them. 

Errando in quelli boschi 

Trovar polriastrane avventure emolte, 



and enlarged ideas, the noble and animated language of 
this Popish priest." — Essays, xxvii. p. 86. 

1 " La tolerance est la chose du monde la plus propre a 
ramcner le siede d' or et a faire un concert et uneharmonie 
de plusieurs voix et instruments de differents tons et notes, 
aussi agreable pour le moins que 1' unifonnite d' uno seule 
voix." B:iyle, Commentaire Philosophique, etc. part. ii. 
chap. vi. — Both Bayle and Locke would have treated the 
subject of Toleration in a manner more worthy of themselves 
9 nd' of I he cause, if they had written iu an age less distracted 
bv religious prejudices. 



Ma come i luoghi i fatti ancor son foscni, 
Che non se'n ha notizia le piu volte. 1 

" Hence it is that the annals of Ireland, through a 
long lapse of six hundred vears, exhibit not one ut' 
those shining names, not one oi those themes of .ra« 
tional pride, from which poetry borrows her noblest 
inspiration ; and that history, which ought to be the 
richest garden of the Muse, yields nothing to her 
here but weeds and cypress. In truth, the poet who 
would embellish his song with allusions to Irish 
names and events must be content to seek them in 
those early periods when our character was yet un- 
alloyed and original, before the impolitic craft of our 
conquerors had divided, weakened, and disgraced 
us; and the only traits of heroism which he can 
venture at this day to commemorate, with safety to 
himself, or, perhaps, with honour to the country, are 
to be looked for in those times when the native 
monarchs of Ireland displayed and fostered virtues 
worthy of a better age ; when out Malachies wore 
collars of gold which they had won in single combat 
from the invader, 2 and our Briens deserved the bless 
ings of a people by all the most estimable qualities 
of a king. It may be said indeed that the magic of 
tradition has shed a charm over this remote period, 
to which it is in reality but little entitled, and that 
most of the pictures, which we dwell on so fondly, 
of days when this island was distinguished amidst the 
gloom of Europe, by the sanctity of her morals, the 
spirit of her knighthood, and the polish of her schools, 
are little more than the inventions of national par- 
tiality, that bright but spurious offspring which vanity 
engenders upon ignorance, and with which the first 
records of every people abound. But the sceptic is 
scarcely to be envied who would pause for stronger 
proofs than we already possess of the early glories 
of Ireland ; and were even the veracity of all these 
proofs surrendered, yet who would not fly to such 
flattering fictions from the sad degrading truths which 
the history of later times presents to us ? 

" The language of sorrow however is, in general 
best suited to our music, and with themes of this na- 
ture the poet may be amply supplied. There is no* 
a page of our annals which cannot afford him a sub- 
ject, and while the national Muse of other countries 
adorns her temple with trophies of the past, in Ire- 
land her altar, like the shrine of Pity at Athens, is to 
be known only by the tears that are shed upon it 
l lacrymis allaria sudanV 3 

" There is a well-known story, related of the An- 
tiochians under of reign of Theodosius, which is not 
only honourable to the powers of music in general, 
but which applies so peculiarly to the mournful melo- 
dies of Ireland, that I cannot resist the temptation of 
introducing it here. — The piety of Theodosius would 
have been admirable, if it had not been stained with 
intolerance ; but his reign affords, I believe, the first 
example of a disqualifying penal code enacted by 
Christians against Christians. 4 Whether his inter- 






1 Ariosto, canto iv. 

2 See Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book ix. 

3 Statius, Thebaid, lib. xii. 

4 " A sort of civil excommunication (says Gibbon,) which 
separated them from their fellow-citizens by a peculiar brand 
of infamy; and this declaration of the supreme magistrate 
tended to justify, or at least to excuse, the insults of a fa 



INTOLERANCE. 



227 



ference with the religion of the Antiochians had any 
share in the alienation of their loyalty is not expressl y 
ascertained by historians ; but severe edicts, heavy 
taxation, and the rapacity and insolence of the men 
whom he sent to govern them, sufficiently account 
for the discontents of a warm and susceptible people. 
Repentance soon followed the crimes into which their 
impatience had hurried them, but the vengetjice of 
the Emperor was implacable, and punishments of 
the most dreadful nature hung over the city of An- 
tiooh, whose devoted inhabitants totally resigned to 
despondence, wandering through the streets and 
public assemblies, giving utterance to their grief in 
dirges of the most touching lamentations.' At length, 



natic populace. The sectaries were gradually disqualified 
for the possession of honourable or lucrative employments, 
and Theodoaius was satisfied with his own justice when he 
decreed, that, as the Eunomians distinguished the nature of 
the Son from that of the Father, they should be incapable 
of making their wills, or receiving any advantage from testa- 
mentary donations." 



Flavianus, their bishop, whom they sent to intercede 
with Theodosius, finding all his entreaties coldly re- 
jected, adopted the expedient of teaching these songs 
of sorrow, which he had heard from the lips of hi3 
unfortunate countrymen, to the minstrels who per- 
formed for the Emperor at table. The heart of Theo- 
dosius could not resist this appeal ; f earsfell fast into 
his cup while he listened, and the Antiochians were 
forgiven. — Surely, if music ever spoke the misfortunes 
of a people, or could ever conciliate forgiveness for 
their errors, the music of Ireland ought to possess 
those powers V 



pivot, Tot«j fts\ai$ixig s7rvi$ov. — Nicephor. lib. xii. cap. 43. 
This story is also in Sozomen, lib. vii. cap. 23 ; but unfor- 
tunately Chrysostom says nothing whatever about it, and ho 
not only had the best opportunities of information, but was 
too fond of music, as appears by his praises of psalmody (Ex- 
posit, in Psal. xli.) to omit such a Mattering illustration of 
its powers. He imputes their reconciliation to the inter- 
ference of the Antiochian solitaries, while Zozimus attri" 
butes it to the remonstrances of the sophist Libanius — 
Gibbon, I think, does not even allude to the story of the mu 
aiciana. 



THE sceptic; 

A PHILOSOPHICAL SATIRE. 



NOMOft llANTflN BASIAEA. 

Pindar, ap. Herodot. lib. 3. 



PREFACE. 

The sceptical philosophy of the ancients has been 
8S much misrepresented as the Epicurean. Pyrrho, 
perhaps, may have carried it to an irrational excess 
(though we must not believe, with Beattie, all the ab- 
surdities imputed to this philosopher,) but it appears 
to me that the doctrines of the school, as stated by 
Sextus Empiricus, 1 are much more suited to the 
frailty of human reason, and more conducive to the 
mild virtues of humility and patience, than any of 
those systems which preceded the introduction of 
Christianity. The Sceptics held a middle path be- 
tween the Dogmatics and Academicians, the former 
of whom boasted that they had attained the truth, 
while the latter denied that any attainable truth ex- 
isted: the Sceptics, however, without asserting or 
denying its existence, professed to be modestly and 
anxiously in search of it ; as St. Augustin expresses 
it, in his liberal tract against the Manicheans, " nemo 
nostrum dicat jam se invenisse veritatem ; sic earn quse- 
ramus quasi ab utrisque nesciatur." 2 From this habit 
of impartial investigation, and the necessity which they 
imposed upon themselves of studying, not only every 
6ystem of philosophy, but every art and science 
which pretended to lay its basis in truth, they neces- 
sarily took a wider range of erudition, and were 
more travelled in the regions of philosophy than 
those whom conviction or bigotry had domesticated 
m any particular system. It required all the learning 
of dogmatism to overthrow the dogmatism of learn- 
ing ; and the Sceptics, in this respect, resembled that 
ancient incendiary, who stole from the altar the fire 
with which he destroyed the temple. This advantage 
ever all the other sects is allowed to them even by 
Lipsius, whose treatise on the miracles of the Virgo 
Hallensis will sufficiently save him from all suspi- 
cion of scepticism. " Lahore, ingenio, memoria supra 
omnes pene philosophos fuisse. — Quid nonne omnia 
aliorum secta tenere debuerunt et inquirere, si pote- 
runt refellere ? res dicit. Nonne orationes varias, 
raras, subfiles inveniri ad tarn receptas, claras, certas 



1 Pvrr. Hypoth. The reader may find a tolerably clear 
abstract of this work of Sextus Empiricus in La Verite 
des Sciences, by Mersenne, liv. i. chap. ii. etc. 

2 Lib. contra Epist. Manichaei quam vocant Fundamenti. 
Op. Paris, torn. vi. 



(ut videbatur) sententias evertendas ?" etc. etc 
Manuduct. ad Philosoph. Stoic. Diss. 4. 

The difference between the scepticism of the an- 
cients and the moderns is, that the former doubted 
for the purpose of investigating, as may be exempli- 
fied by the third book of Aristotle's Metaphysics, 9 
while the latter investigate for the purpose of doubt- 
ing, as may be seen through most of the philosophical 
works of Hume. 3 Indeed the Pyrrhonism of lattoi 
days is not only more subtle than that qf antiquity, 
but, it must be confessed, more dangerous in its ten 
dency. The happiness of a Christian depends so 
much upon his belief, that it is natural he should feel 
alarm at the progress of doubt, lest it steal by degrees 
into the region from which he is most interested in 
excluding it, and poison at last the very spring of his 
consolation and hope. Still, however, the abuses of 
doubting ought not to deter a philosophical mind from 
indulging mildly and rationally in its use ; and there 
is nothing, I think, more consistent with the humble 
spirit of Christianity, than the scepticism of him who 
professes not to extend his distrust beyond the circle 
of human pursuits, and the pretensions of human 
knowledge. A philosopher of this kind is among the 
readiest to admit the claims of Heaven upon his faith 
and adoration : it is only to the wisdom of this weak 
world that he refuses, or at least delays his assent ; 
it is only in passing through the shadow of earth that 
his mind undergoes the eclipse of scepticism. No 
follower of Pyrrho has ever spoken more strongly 
against the dogmatists than St. Paul himself, in the 
First Epistle to the Corinthians ; and there are pas- 
sages in Ecclesiastes and other parts of Scripture 
which justify our utmost diffidence in all that human 
reason originates. Even the sceptics of antiquity 
refrained from the mysteries of theology, and, in 
entering the temples of religion, laid aside their phi- 
losophy at the porch. Sextus Empiricus thus declares 
the acquiescence of his sect in the general belief of a 



1 See Martin. Shoockius de Scepticismo, who endeavours, 
I think weakly, to refute this opinion of Lipsius. 

2 Eittj Se to»s evTTOpqcrxt povXop-ivoig 7rpovpyov to Slot 

7T0{,y,<rxt xaKwg. — 

Metaphys. lib. iii. cap. 1. 

3 Neither Hume, however, nor Berkeley, are to be judged 
by the misrepresentations of Beattie, whose book, however 
amiably intended, appears to me a most unphilosophical 
appeal to popular feelings and piejudices, and a continued 
petitio jrrincipii throughou 



THE SCEPTIC. 



229 



superintending Providence : Tv f*ev fiiit> Kara.Ko'Xov- 
Sovvtss ado^a^S <pa[i£V tivai Qeovs kul <7£/?o/*£i> Seovs 
teat irpovot.iv clvtovs dapcv. Lib. iii. cap. 1. In short, 
't appears to me that this rational and well-regulated 
scepticism is the only daughter of the schools that 
can be selected as a handmaid for piety : he who dis- 
trusts the light of reason will be the first to follow a 
more luminous guide ; and if, with an ardent love for 
truth, he has sought her in vain through the ways of 
this life, he will turn with the more hope to that bet- 
ter world, where all is simple, true, and everlasting : 
for there is no parallax at the zenith — it is only near 
our troubled horizon that objects deceive us into 
7ague. and erroneous calculations. 



THE SCEPTIC. 



As the gay tint that decks the vernal rose, 1 

Not in the flower, but in our vision glows ; 

As the ripe flavour of Falernian tides 

Not in the wine, but in our taste resides ; 

So when, with heartfelt tribute, we declare 

That Marco 's honest and that Susan 's fair, 

*T is in our minds, and not in Susan's eyes 

Or Marco's life, the worth or beauty lies : 

For she, in flat-nosed China, would appear 

As plain a thing as Lady Anne is here ; 

And one light joke, at rich Loretto's dome 

Would rank good Marco with the damn'd at Rome. 

There 's no deformity so vile, so base, 
That 'tis not somewhere thought a charm, a grace ; 
No foul reproach that may not steal a beam 
From other suns, to bleach it to esteem ! 2 



1 " The particular bulk, number, figure, and motion of 
the parts of fire or snow are really in them, whether any one 
perceive them or not, and therefore they may be called real 
qualities, because they really exist in those bodies ; but light, 
heat, whiteness, or coldness, are no more really in them than 
sickness ot pain is in manna. Take away the sensation of 
them ; let not the eye see light or colours, nor the ears hear 
sounds, let the palate not taste, nor the nose smell, and all 
colours, tastes, odours, and sounds, as they are such parti- 
cular ideas, vanish and cease." — Locke, book ii. chap. 8. 

Bishop Berkeley, it is well known, extended this doctrine 
even to primary qualities, and supposed that matter itself 
has but an ideal existence. How shall we apply the bishop's 
theory to that period which preceded the formation of man, 
when our system of sensible things was produced, and the 
sun shone, and the waters flowed, without any sentient being 
to witness them 1 The spectator, whom Whiston supplies, 
will scarcely solve the difficulty : "To speak my mind free- 
ly," says he, " I believe that theMessias was there actually 
present." — See Whiston, of the Mosaic Creation. 

2 Boctius employs this argument of the Sceptics, among his 
consolatory reflections upon the emptiness of fame. " Quid 
quod diversarum gentium mores inter se atque instituta dis- 
cordant, ut quod opud alios laude, apud alios supplicio dig- 
num judicelur 1" Lib. ii. prosa. 7. — Many amusing instances 
of diversity, in the tastes, manners, and morals of different 
nations, mny be found throughout the works of that interest- 
ing sceptic Le Mothe leVayer. — See his Opuscule Sceptique, 
his treatise " de la Secte Sceptique," and, above all, those 
Dialogues, not to be found in his works, which he published 
under the name of Horatius Tubero. — The chief objection 
»o these writings of Le Vayer (and it is a blemish which, I 
Jiink, may be felt in the Esprit des Loix,) is the suspicious 
obscurity of the sources from which he frequently draws his 
instances, and the indiscriminate use which he makes of the 
lowest populace of the library, those lying travellers and 
wonder mongers, of whom Shaftesbury complains, in his 
Advice to an Author, as having tended in his own time to 
»he diffusion of a very vicious sort of scepticism. Vol. i. p. 



Ask, who is wise ? — you '11 find the self-same man 
A sage in France, a madman in Japan , 
And here some head beneath a mitre swells, 
Which there had tingled to a cap and bells : 
Nay, there may yet some monstrous region be, 
Unknown to Cook, and from Napoleon free, 
Where C*stl*r**gh would for a patriot pass, 
And mouthing M*lgr*ve scarce be deem'd an ass . 

" List not to reason," Epicurus cries, 

" But trust the senses, there conviction lies :" — * 

Alas ! they judge not by a purer light, 

Nor keep their fountains more untinged and bright : 

Habit so mars them, that the Russian swain 

Will sigh for train-oil while he sips champagne ; 

And health so rules them, that a fever's heat 

Would make even Sh*r*d*n think water sweet ! 

Just as the mind the erring sense 2 believes, 
The erring mind, in turn, the sense deceives, 



352. The Pyrrhonism of Le Vayer, however, is of the most 
innocent and playful kind; and Villemandy, the author of 
Scepticismus Debellatus, exempts him specially in the decla- 
ration of war which he denounces against the other armed 
neutrals of the sect, in consideration of the orthodox limits 
within which he has confined his incredulity. 

1 This was also the creed of those modern Epicureans, 
whom Ninon de l'Enclos collected around her in the Rue 
des Tournelles, and whose object seems to have been to 
decry the faculty of reason, as tending only to embarrass our 
use of pleasures, without enabling us, in any degree, to avoid 
their abuse. Madame des Houlieres, the fair pupil of Des 
Barreaux in the arts of poetry and voluptuousness, has de- 
voted most of her verses to this laudable purpose, and is 
such a determined foe to reason, that, in one of her pasto- 
rals, she congratulates her sheep on the want of it. St. Evre- 
mont speaks thus upon the subject : 

" Un melange incertain d'esprit et de matiere 
Nous fait vivre avec trop ou trop peu de lumiere. 

Nature, eleve-nous a la clarte des anges, 
Ou nous abaise au sens des simples animaux." 
Which sentiments I have thus ventured to paraphrase: 
Had man been made, at Nature's birth, 
Of only flame, or only earth, 
Had he been form'd a perfect whole 

Of purely that, or grossly this, 
Then sense would ne'er have clouded soul, 

Nor soul restrain'd the sense's bliss. 
Oh happy ! had his light been strong, 

Or had he never shared a light, 
Which burns enough to show he 's wrong, 

Yet not enough to lead him right! 

2 See those verses upon the fallaciousness of the senses, 
beginning "Fallunt nos o«uli," etc. among the fragments or 
Petronius. The most sceptical of the ancient poets was 
Euripides, and I defy the whole school of Pyrrho to produce 
a more ingenious doubt than the following : 

Tij $' oiSsv si fyv tou5' o x£xX.»|T£ei Sxvsiv, 
To £>)" £« 5-^o-xsjw fo-Tj. — See Laert. in Pyrrh. 
Socrates and Plato were the grand sources of ancient 
scepticism. Cicero tells us (de Orator, lib. iii.) that they 
supplied Arcesilas with the doctrines of the Middle Acade- 
my; and how much these resembled the tenets of the Scep- 
tics, may be seen even in Sextus Empiricus, (lib. i. cap. 33.) 
who, with all his distinctions, can scarcely prove any differ- 
ence. One is sorry to find that Epicurus was a dogmatist; 
and I rather think his natural temper would have led him to 
the repose of scepticism, if the Stoics, by their violent oppo- 
sition, had not forced him to be as obstinate as themselves 
Indeed Plutarch, in reporting some of his opinions, repro 
sents him as delivering them with considerable hesitation 
Ejrixoupo; ou^iv UTroyivjitrxst toutcov, t%aftsvoq to-j sv$£%,a 
,u£vou. De Placit. Philosoph. lib. ii. cap. 13. See also th« 
21st and 22d chapters. But that, the leading characteristics 
of the sect were self-sufficiency and dogmatism, appears 
from what Cicero says of Velleius, De Natur. Deor. — " Turn 
Velleius, fidentur sane, ut solent isti, nihil tam verens quam 
ne dubitare aliqua de re videretur " 



230 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



And cold disgust can find but wrinkles there, 

Where passion fancies all that 's smooth and fair. 

* * * *, who sees, upon his pillow laid, 

A face for which ten thousand pounds were paid, 

Can tell, how quick before a jury flies 

The spell that mock'd the warm seducer's eyes ! 

Self is the medium least refined of all 

Through which opinion's searching beam can fall ; 

And, passing there, the clearest, steadiest ray 

Will tinge its light and turn its line astray. 

Th' Ephesian smith a holier charm espied 

In Dian's toe, than all his heaven beside ;' 

And true religion shines not half so true 

On one good living as it shines on two. 

Had W — 1c — t first been pension'd by the Throne, 

Kings would have suffer'd by his praise alone ; 

And P — ine perhaps, for something snug per ann., 

Had laugh'd, like W— 11— sly, at all Rights of Man ! 

But 'tis not only individual minds 

That habit tinctures, or that interest blinds ; 

Whole nations, fool'd by falsehood, fear, or pride, 

Their ostrich-heads in self-illusion hide : 

Thus England, hot from Denmark's smoking meads, 

Turns up her eyes at Gallia's guilty deeds ; 

Thus, selfish still, the same dishonouring chain 

She binds in Ireland, she would break in Spain ; 

While praised at distance, but at home forbid, 

Rebels in Cork are patriots at Madrid ! 

Oh ! trust me, Self can cloud the brightest cause, 

Or gild the worst ; — and then, for nations' laws ! 

Go, good civilian, shut thy useless book ; 

In force alone for laws of nations look. 

Let shipless Danes and whining Yankees dwell 

On naval rights, with Grotius and Vattel, 

While C — bb — t's 2 pirate code alone appears 

Sound moral sense to England and Algiers ! 

Woe to the Sceptic, in these party days, 

Who burns on neither shrine the balm of praise ! 

For him no pension pours its annual fruits, 

No fertile sinecure spontaneous shoots; 

Not his the meed that crown'd Don H — kh — m's 

rhyme, 
Nor sees he e'er, in dreams of future time, 
Those shadowy forms of sleek reversions rise, 
So dear to Scotchmen's second-sighted eyes ! 



1 See Acts, chap, xix.; where every line reminds one of 
those reverend craftsmen who are so ready to cry out — 
"The church is in danger!" 

•• For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, 
which .nade silver shrines for Diana, brought no small gain 
unto the craftsmen: 

" Whom he called together, with the workmen of like 
occupation, and said, Sirs, ye know that by this craft we 
have our wealth: 



" So that not only this our craft is likely to be set at 
nought, but also that the temple of the great goddess Diana 
Bhould be despised," etc. etc. 

2 With most of this writer's latter politics I confess I feel 
a most hearty concurrence, and perhaps, if I were an Eng- 
lishman, my pride might lead me to acquiesce in that system 
of lawless, unlimited sovereignty, which he claims so boldly 
for his country dc sea ; but, viewing the question somewhat 
more disinterestedly, and a9 a friend to the common rights 
of mankind, I cannot help thinking that the doctrines which 
he maintained upon the Copenhagen expedition, and the 
differences with America, would establish a species of mari- 
time tyranny, as discreditable to the character of England, 
a-s it would be galling and unjus.' to the other nations of the 
•vorld 



Yet who, that looks to time's accusing leaf, 
Where Whig and Tory, thief opposed to thief, 
On either side in lofty shame are seen, 1 
While Freedom's form hangs crucified between— 
"Who, B — rd — tt, who such rival rogues can see, 
But flies from both to honesty and thee ? 

If, giddy with the world's bewildering maze, 2 
Hopeless of finding, through its weedy ways, 
One flower of truth, the busy croVvd we shun, 
And to the shades of tranquil learning run, 
How many a doubt pursues ! 3 how oft we sigh, 
When histories charm, to think that histories lie ! 
That all are grave romances, at the best, 
And M — sgr — ve's 4 but more clumsy than the rest ! 
By Tory Hume's seductive page beguiled,. 
We fancy Charles was just and Strafford mild; 5 
And Fox himself, with party pencil, draws 
Monmouth a hero, "for the good old cause !" 6 
Then, rights are wrongs, and victories are defeats, 
As French or English pride the tale repeats ; 
And, when they tell Corunna's story o'er, 
They'll disagree in all, but honouring Moore ! 



1 This I have borrowed from Ralph — Use and Abuse of 
Parliaments, p. 164. 

2 The agitation of the ship is one of the chief difficultie* 
which impede the discovery of the longitude at sea ; and the 
tumult and hurry of life are equally unfavourable to that 
calm level of mind which is necessary to an inquirer after 
truth. 

In the mean time, our modest Sceptic, in the absence of 
truth, contents himself with probabilities, resembling in this 
respect those suitors of Penelope, who, when they found 
that they could not possess the mistress herself, very wisely 
resolved to put up with her maids ; t>j IIsjv5X.057->i TrKy.c-tx'Cuv 
y.vt Swxftevot, t»«5 Taints sfityvvro vipu.rtxtvx.is . — Plu- 
tarch IIsp« IT*<SW Ayx-ysg. 

3 See a curious work, entitled, " Reflections upon Learn- 
ing," written on the plan of Agrippa's " De Vanitate Scien- 
tiarum," but much more honestly and skilfully executed. 

4 This historian of the Irish rebellions has outrun even 
his predecessor in the same task, Sir John Temple, for whose 
character with respect to veracity the reader may consult 
Carte's Collection of Ormond's Original Papers, p. 207. See 
also Dr. Nelson's account of him, in the Introduction to the 
second volume of his Historic. Collect. 

5 He defends Strafford's conduct as " innocent and even 
laudable." In the same spirit, speaking of the arbitrary 
sentences of the Star Chamber, he says — " The severity of 
the Star Chamber, which was generally ascribed to Laud's 
passionate disposition, was perhaps, in itself, somewhat 
blameable." — See Toicers vpon Hume. 

6 That flexibility of temper and opinion, which the habits 
of scepticism are so calculated to produce, are thus pleaded 
for by Mr. Fox, in the very sketch of Monmouth to which 
I allude; and this part of the picture the historian may be 
thought to have drawn for himself. " One of the most 
conspicuous features in his character seems to have been a 
remarkable, and, as some think, a culpable degree of flexi- 
bility. That such a disposition is preferable to its opposite 
extreme will be admitted by all, who think that modesty, 
even in excess, is more nearly allied to wisdom than conceit 
and self-sufficiency. He who has attentively considered the 
political, or indeed the general concerns of life, may possibly 
go still further, and may rank a willingness to be convinced, 
or, in some cases, even without conviction, to concede our 
own opinion to that of other men, among the principal in- 
gredients in the composition of practical wisdom." — The 
Sceptic's readiness of concession, however, arises more from 
uncertainty than conv'Ction, more from a suspicion that his 
own opinion may he wrong, than from any persuasion that 
the opinion of his adversary is right. " It may be so," was 
the courteous and sceptical formula, with which the Dutch 
were accustomed to replv to the statements of ambassadors. 
—See Lloyd's State Worthies, art. Sir Thomas IViat. 

To the "historical frajmen.t of Mr. Fox, we m.iv apply 
what Pliny says of the last unfinished works of celebrated 
artists—" In lenocinio commendationis dolac est manus, cum 
id ageret, extinctae."— Lib. xxxv. cap. 2. 



Nay, future pens, to flatter future courts, 
May cite perhaps the Park-guns' gay reports, 
To prove t.:at England triumph'd on the morn 
vVhich found her Junot's jest and Europe's scorn ! 

In science, too — how many a system, raised 
Like Neva's icy domes, awhile hath blazed 
With lights of fancy and with forms of pride, 
Then, melting, mingled with the oblivious tide . 
Now Earth usurps the centre of the sky, 
Now Newton puts the paltry planet by ; 
Now whims revive beneath Descartes's 1 pen, 
Which now, assail'd by Locke's, expire again: 
And when, perhaps, in pride of chemic powers, 
We think the keys of Nature's kingdom ours, 
Some Davy's magic touch the dream unsettles, 
And turns at once our alkalis to metals 1 

Or, should we roam, in metaphysic maze, 

Through fair-built theories of former days, 

Some Dr — mm — d 2 from the north, more ably skill'd, 

Like other Goths, to ruin than to build, 

Tramples triumphant through our fanes o'erthrown, 

Nor leaves one grace, one glory of his own ! 

Oh Learning ! Learning ! whatsoe'er thy boast, 
Unletter'd minds have taught and charm'd us most : 
The rude, unread Columbus was our guide 
To worlds, which lear/i'd Lactantius had denied, 
And one wild Shakspeare, following Nature's lights, 
Is worth whole planets, fill'd with Stagyrites ! 



1 Descartes, who is considered as the parent of modern 
scepticism, says, that there is nothing in the whole range of 
philosophy which does not admit of two opposite opinions, 
and which is not involved in doubt and uncertainty. "In 
Philosophia nihil adhuc reperiri, de quo non in utramque 
partem disputatur, hoc est, quod non sit incertum et dubi- 
um." Gassendi is another of our modern sceptics, and 
Wedderkopff, in his Dissertation "De Scepticismo profano 
et sacro" (Argentorat. 1666,) has denounced Erasmus as a 
follower of Pyrrho, for his opinions upon the Trinity, and 
some other subjects. To these if we add the names of 
Bayle, Mailebranche, Dryden, Locke, etc. etc. 1 think there 
is no one who need be ashamed of doubting in such company. 

2 See this gentleman's Academic Questions. 



See grave Theology, when once she stravs 
From Revelation's path, what tricks she plays ! 
How many various heavens hath Fancy's wing 
Explored or touch'd from Papias 1 down to King! ? 
And hell itself, in India nought but smoke, 3 
In Spain 's a furnace, and in France — a joke 

Hail, modest ignorance ! thou goal and prize, 
Thou last, best knowledge of the humbly wise ! 
Hail, sceptic ease ! when error's waves are past. 
How sweet to reach thy tranquil port 4 at last, 
And, gently rock'd in undulating doubt, 
Smile at the sturdy winds which war without ! 
There gentle Charity, who knows how frail 
The bark of Virtue, even in summer's gale, 
Sits by the nightly fire, whose beacon glows 
For all who wander, whether friends or foes ! 
There Faith retires, and keeps her white sail furl'd, 
Till call'd to spread it for a purer world; 
While Patience lingers o'er the weedy shore, 
And, mutely waiting till the storm be o'er, 
Turns to young Hope, who still directs his eye 
To some blue spot, just breaking in the sky ! 

These are the mild, the blest associates given 

To him who doubts, and trusts in nought but Heaven 



1 Papias lived about the time of the Apostles, and is sup- 
posed to have given birth to the heresy of the Chiliastae, whose 
heaven was by no means of a spiritual nature, but rather an 
anticipation of the Prophet of Hera's elysium. See Euse- 
bius Hist. Ecclesiast. lib. iii. cap. 33, and Hieronym. de 
Scriptor. Ecclesiast. — though, from all that I can "rind in 
these authors concerning Papias, it seems hardly fair to im- 
pute to him those gross imaginations in which the believers 
of the sensual millennium indulged. 

2 King, in his Morsels of Criticism, vol. i. supposes the 
sun to be the receptacle of blessed spirits. 

3 The Indians call hell "The House of Smoke." See 
Picart upon the Religion of the Banians. The reader who 
is curious about infernal matters may be edified by consult- 
ing Rusca de Inferno, particularly lib. ii. cap. 7,8, where he 
will rind the precise sort of fire ascertained in which wicked 
spirits are to be burned hereafter. 

4 '' Chere Sceptique, douce pature de mon ame, et 
l'unique port de salut a un esprit qui aitne le repos 1" — La 
Molhe le Vayer. 



H agBBBH BBBB SE 



ODES OF ANACKEON< 



DEDICATION. 

TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES. 

Sir, — In allowing me to dedicate this work to your Royal Highness, you have conferred upon 
me an honour which I feel very sensibly : and I have only to regret that the pages which you have 
thus distinguished are not more deserving of such illustrious patronage. 
Believe me, Sir, 

With every sentiment of respect, 
Your Royal Highness's 

Very grateful and devoted Servant, 

THOMAS MOORE. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



It may be necessary to mention that, in arranging 
the Odes, the Translator has adopted the order of 
the Vatican MS. For those who wish to refer to the 
original, he has prefixed an Index, which marks the 
number of each ode in Barnes and the other editions. 



INDEX. 



ODE. BARNES. 

1 ANAKPEJ2N iSwv pe 63 

2 Aote pot Xvpijv 'Opr/pov 48 

S Aye, faypcKpwv apc^e — . — ...49 

4 Tov apyvpov ropevmv 17 

5 Ka\r}TS%va roptvcov .18 

6 Xreiio? ttXekuv tot' tvpov... 59 

7 Aeyovciv al yvvatKsg -.11 

8 Ov poi jjLcXei ra Tvyov 15 

9 A0£? p£ rovg dzovg <roi 31 

10 Tt croi 0eXets Toitiffu) 12 

11 Epwra Krjpivov Tig 10 

12 Ot pEV Ka\rivKvj3v^T]V 13 

13 etXco, OiXu) <pi\r)cai 14 

14 Et (pvXXa Ttavra SevSpwv 32 

15 ~Epaap.it] ireXzia - 9 

16 Aye, ^u)ypa(p(ov apt^-e 28 

17 TpatpE poi BadvXXov ovtu) 29 

18 Aore poi, $ote } yvvaiKzg , 21 

19 Hapa ttjv ckitjv BadvXXov 22 

20 At Movaai tov Epwra 30 

21 H ve fxsXaiva tivei 19 

22 'H TavTaXov ttot c?ri 20 

23 GeXw \iyuv ArpEiSag 1 

24 $vaig Ktpara ravpoig 2 

25 Sd [xev (pi\r) ^eXiSwv 33 

26 So ixev XzyEig ra Qrj^g 16 

27 Et ta^ioig jxtv m-oi 55 

28 f O avrjp b tiis KvOrjpTis 45 

2Q XaXcTTov to prj <f>iXqaat 46 



ODE. BARNES 

30 Edoicovv ovap Tpo^a^etv 44 

31 'YaKivdivrj pie pafiSu) 7 

132 E7rt [ivpffivais Ttpivaig — 4 

33 MeaovvKTiois tot wpaig...% - 3 

34 MaKapi^opev <te, tetti^ 43 

35 Epwj tot ev poSoict 40 

36 c O irXovTog EiyE ^pvaov 23 

37 Aia vvKTwv EyicaOEvhwv 8 

38 Aiapov Tiwptv oivov 41 

39 <I>tXa) yEpOVTa TEpTVOV 47 

40 E~etoV/ fipoTog ETVxdriv 24 

41 Tt icaXov es-i pa&tfav 66 

42 HoOta) pEV Aiovvaov 42 

43 ]2TE(pavovg pzv KpoTa<poiai 6 

44 To pohov TO TWV EpWTWV ..5 

45 ' OtcLV TIVU) TOV OIVOV... 25 

46 Io"e, to>? iapog cpavEVTog 37 

47 Eyw yepcov //ev sipi 38 

48 'Otuv b Batc^og EtcEXQr) 26 

49 Tov Aiog bvaig Bandog 27 

50 'Or' eyw tiu> tov olvov... ....39 

51 M?7 ps (pvyrjg opioaa ...34 

52 Tt fiE rovg vopovg SiSacKEig ; 36 

53 'Ot* eya> vewv bpiXov... ..54 

54 'O ravpog ovrog, w izai 35 

55 I.TE(pavT](popov pET Hpog.... .53 

56 f O tov ev izovoig aTEipe 50 

57 Apa Tig TOpEVO-ETTOVTOV 51 

58 f O SpaiTETag p' b %pvaog 65 

59 Tov pEXavo^pwra fioTpvv 52 

60 Ava pap,8iTov Sovijau) 64 

****** 

61 TloXiot pEv fjpiv rjh - 56 

62 Aye Sr), (pEp* rjpiv, 0) irai 57 

63 Tov Epwra yap tov a(ipov 58 

64 Tovvovpai a\ eXa^/UoXe 60 

65 JJooXe QpTjKit], ti 8rj pE 61 

66 Gcawv avavaa, Kvrtpi 62 

67 Si -nai rapBEviov fiXziruv 67 

68 Eyw S'ovt av ApaXQEirig 68 

For the order of the rest, see the Notes 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



233 



AN ODE 

BY THE TRANSLATOR. 



EI1I oohvoig ra-rjai, 
Tr/iog "«r' 6 ptXi^rjg 
'Wapog ytkwv ikzito. 
McOuwv rt Kat Aupt£wv 
A/<0t aiirov ol <5' epwre;. 
r A-uAot o-ui^opsucaV 
O 8t\r] ra Ti]S KvQi]pris 
E-rma, \j.v%r]S ol^OVi' 
O <5e \evKa iropQvpoicn 
Kpn-a <ruj> poboiai itXc^a;, 
E0tAn s"£<pwv yepovra' 
H (5s Gcawv avaero-a, 
20<MH ttot t£ OAu;t~ou 
Eo-opwo-' AvaKpeovra, 
TLaopuxra tov$ Epwraj, 

YrO/t£t<5taC(7aj £17T£* 

*Lo<pe, <T wf AvaKpeovra 
Tov GO(f>(j)Tarov aizavrwv, 
KaXrovffiv ol co6i^ai, 
Tt, ytpwv, T£ov ,5toi/ y;«£V 
Tots £/3werj, ry Auai^o, 
K 1 ouk E//oi Kpareiv eduk'as J 
Tt (pi\rip.a T7]S KvQ>ipr,g, 
Tt KurfAAa tou Auatov, 
Ata y' STpvcprjaas gbuv, 
Ovk epovs vopiovs 5i8a<TKU)v, 
Ovk epov Aa^tov awrov; 
f O <5e T?7 7os peXt^S 
hlrjTt Svcr^epaive, <pvo~ii 
f Ort, 0£«, ffou y' awu pzv, 
f O ao<p(i)Taroi a~avru)v 
TLapa tuv cro<pwv Ka\ovpaf 

<I>tA£W, 7TtO>, Aupt^w, 

M£ra rwv KaAwv yuvatKwv 
A<pe\u>s be TtpTTva nai^u), 
J2? Aup?7 yap, £/tov >7rop 
Avan-V£t povovs tpwrag' 
'i2rj£ j3iorov yaKrjvriv 
<!uA£wv paKis'a -airwv, 
Ou cro<£o? /tfAt^oj £tfit ; 
Tts GO(pu)T£pos pev £S"t. 



REMARKS ON ANACREON 

Thbre is very little known with certainty of the 
life of Anacreon. Chamsleon Heracleotes, 1 who 
wrote upon the subject, has been lost in the general 
wreck of ancient literature. The editors of the poet 
have collected the few trifling anecdotes which are 
scattered through the extant authors of antiquity, and, 
supplying the deficiency of materials by fictions of 
their own imagination, they have arranged, what they 
call, a life of Anacreon. These specious fabrications 
are intended to indulge that interest which we natu- 
rally feel in the biography of illustrious men ; but it 
is rather a dangerous kind of illusion, as it confounds 



1 He is quoted by Athenacus £v to 
2 G 



the limits of history and romance, 1 and is too often 
supported by unfaithful citation. 2 

Our poet was born in the city of Teos, in the deli- 
cious region of Ionia, where every thing respired 
voluptuousness. 3 The time of his birth appears to 
have been in the sixth century before Christ, 4 and he 
flourished at that remarkable period when, under the 
polished tyrants Hipparchus and Polycrates, Athens 
and Sarnos were the rival asylums of genius. The 
name of his father is doubtful, and therefore cannot 
be very interesting. His family was perhaps illustri- 
ous, but those who discover in Plato that he was a 
descendant of the monarch Codrus, exhibit, as usual, 
more zeal than accuracy. 5 

The disposition and talents of Anacreon recom- 
mended him to the monarch of Samos, and he was 
formed to be the friend of such a prince as Polycra- 
tes. Susceptible only to the pleasures, he felt not 
the corruptions of the court ; and while Pythagoras 
fled from the tyrant, Anacreon was celebrating his 
praises on the lyre We are told too by Maximus 
Tyrius, that by the influence of his amatory songs he 
softened the mind of Polycrates into a spirit of be- 
nevolence toward his subjects. 6 

The amours of the poet and the rivalship of the 
tyrant' I shall pass over in silence ; and there are 
few, I presume, who will regret the omission of most 
of those anecdotes, which the industry of some editors 
has not only promulged but discussed. Whatever is 
repugnant to modesty and virtue is considered in 
ethical science, by a supposition very favourable to 
humanity, as impossible ; and this amiable persuasion 
should be much more strongly entertained where the 
transgression wars with nature as well as virtue 
But why" are we not allowed to indulge in the pre- 
sumption? Why are we officiously reminded that 
there have been such instances of depravity ? 

Hipparchus, who now maintained at Athens the 



1 The History of Anacreon, by Monsieur Gacon (io po- 
ele sans laid) is professedly a romance; nor does Made- 
moiselle Scuderi, from whom he borrowed the idea, preteud 
to historical veracity in her account of Anacreon and Sap- 
pho. These, then, are allowable. But how can Barnes be 
forgiven, who, with all the confidence of a biographer, traces 
every wandering of the poet, and settles him in his old age 
at a country villa near Teos 1 

2 The learned Monsieur Bayle has detected some infideli- 
ties of quotation in Le Fevre. See Dictionnaire Histo- 
rigue, etc. Madame Dacier is not more accurate than hei 
father: they have almost made Anacreon prime minister to 
the monarch of Samos. 

3 The Asiatics were as remarkable for genius as for lux- 
ury. "Ingenia Asiatica inclyta per gentes fecere poetas, 
Anacreon, inde Mimnermus et Antimachus," etc. — Strfinus. 

4 I have not attempted to define the particular Olympiad, 
but have adopted the idea of Bayle, who says, "Je n'ai 
point marque d'Olympiade; car, pour un liomme qui a 
vecu 85 ans, il nie semble que Ton ne doit point s'enfermer 
dans des bornes si etroites." 

5 This mistake is founded on a false interpretation of a 
very obvious passage in Plato's Dialogue on Temperance; 
it originated with Madame Dacier, and has been received 
implicitly by many. Gail, a late editor of Anacreon, seems 
to claim to himself the merit of detecting this error; but 
Bayle had observed it before him. 

6 Avxxpiwv Zx,ums IloKvxpxrttv yifteputrs. — Maxim. Tyr. 
§ 21. Maximus Tyrius mentions this among other instances 
of the influence of poetry. If Gail had read Maximus 
Tyrius, how could he ridicule this idea in Mouionnet, as 
unauthenticated? 

7 In the romance of Clelia, the anecdote to which I allude 
is told of a young girl, with whom Anacreon fell in love 
while she personated the god Apollo in a mask But hers 
Mademoiselle Scuderi consulted nature more than truth 



234 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



power which his father Pisistratus had usurped, was 
one of those elegant princes who have polished the 
fetters of their subjects. He was the first, according 
to Plato, who edited the poems of Homer, and com- 
manded them to be sung by the rhapsodists at the 
celebration of the Panathenaea. As his court was the 
galaxy of genius, Anacreon should not be absent. 
Hipparchus sent a barge for him ; the poet embraced 
the invitation, and the muses and the loves were 
wafted with him to Athens. 1 

The manner of Anacreon's death was singular. 
We are told that in the eighty-fifth year of his age he 
was choked by a grape-stone ; 2 and however we may 
smile at their enthusiastic partiality, who pretend that 
it was a peculiar indulgence of Heaven, which stole 
him from the world by this easy and characteristic 
death, we cannot help admiring that his fate should 
be so emblematic of his disposition. Caelius Calcag- 
ninus alludes to this catastrophe in the following 
epitaph on our poet : 
3 Then, hallovv'd sage, those lips which pour'd along 
The sweetest lapses of the cygnet's song, 

A grape has closed for ever ! 
Here let the ivy kiss the poet's tomb, 
Here let the rose he loved with laurels bloom, 

In bands that ne'er shall sever! 
But far be thou, oh ! far, unholy vine, 
By whom the favourite minstrel of the Nine 

Expired his rosy breath ; 
Thy god himself now blushes to confess, 
Unholy vine ! he feels he loves thee less', 
Since poor Anacreon's death ! 
There can scarcely be imagined a more delightful 
theme for the warmest speculations of fancy to wan- 
ton upon, than the idea of an intercourse between 
Anacreon and Sappho. I could wish to believe that 
they were contemporary : any thought of an inter- 
change between hearts so congenial in warmth of 
passion and delicacy of genius gives such play to the 
imagination, that the mind loves to indulge in it; but 
the vision dissolves before historical truth ; and Cha- 
maeleon and Hermesianax, who are the source of the 
supposition, are considered as having merely indulged 
in a poetical anachronism. 4 



1 There is a very interesting French poem founded upon 
this anecdote, imputed to Desyvetaux, and called " Ana- 
creon Citoyen." 

2 Fabricius appears not to trust very implicitly in this 
story. "Uvaspassse acino tandem suflfocatus, si credimus 
Suidae in o»vo3roT>f j ; alii euim hoc mortis genere perisse tra- 
dunt Sophoclem." Fabricii. Bibliothec. Graec. lib. ii. cap. 
15. It must be confessed that Lucian, who tells us that 
Sophocles was choked by a grape-stone, in the very same 
treatise mentions the longevity of Anacreon, and yet is silent 
on the manner of his death. Could he have been ignorant 
of such a remarkable coincidence, or, knowing, could he 
have neglected to remark it"? See Regnier's Introduction 
to his Anacreon. 

3 At te, sancte senex, acinus sub tartara misit; 

Cysmete clausit qui tibi vocis iter. 
Vos, hedera, tumulum, tumulum vos, cingite lauri: 

Hoc rosa perpetuo vernet odora loco; 
At vitis procul liinc, piocul hinc odiosa facessat, 

Q,ua3 causam diraj protulit, uva, necis, 
Creditur ipse minus vitem jam Bacchus amare, 
In vatem tanlum quae fuit ausa nefas. 
Cffilius Calcagninus has translated or imitated the epigrams 
«; tyiv Mtf H wi/o$ /3ouv, which are given under the name of 
Anacreon. 

4 Barnes is convinced of the synchronism of Anacreon 
and Sappho; but very gratuitously- In citing his authori- 
ties, it is strange that ho neglected the line which Fulvius 



To infer the moral dispositions of a poet from the 
tone of sentiment which pervades his works, is some- 
times a very fallacious analogy : but the soul of Ana- 
creon speaks so unequivocally through his odes, that 
we may consult them as the faithful mirrors of his 
heart. 1 We find him there the elegant voluptuary, 
diffusing the seductive charm of sentiment over pas- 
sions and propensities at whiclj rigid morality must 
frown. His heart, devoted to indolence, seems to think 
that there is wealth enough in happiness, but seldom 
happiness enough in wealth ; and the cheerfulness 
with which he brightens his old age is interesting and 
endearing : like his own rose, he is fragrant even in 
decay. But the most peculiar feature of his mind is 
that love of simplicity which he attributes to himselt 
so very feelingly, and which breathes characteris- 
tically through all that he has sung. In truth, if we 
omit those vices in our estimate which ethnic religion 
not only connived at but consecrated, we shall say 
that the disposition of our poet was amiable; hia 
morality was relaxed, but not abandoned ; and Vir- 
tue with her zone loosened may be an emblem of the 
character of Anacreon. 2 

Of his person and physiognomy time has preserved 
such uncertain memorials, that perhaps it were bet 
ter to leave the pencil to fancy ; and few can read 
the Odes of Anacreon without imagining the form of 
the animated old bard, crowned with roses, and sing- 
ing to the lyre. 3 



Ursinus has quoted, as of Anacreon, among the testimonies 
to Sappho : 

Eifti Xx&av surxpxg ~Zx7r$<a 7rxp$ivov xSvCpaivov. 
Fabricius thinks that they might have been contemporary, 
but considers their amour as a tale of imagination. Vossius 
rejects the idea entirely as also Olaus Borrichius, etc. etc 

1 An Italian poet, in some verses on Belleau's translation 
of Anacreon, pretends to imagine that our bard did not feel 
as he wrote. 

Lyoeum, Venerem, Cupidinemque 
Senex lusit Anacreon poeta. 
Sed quo tempore nee capaciores 
Rogabat cyathos, nee inquietis 
Urebatur amoribus, sed ipsis 
Tantum versibus et jocis amabat, 
Nullum prae se habitum gerens amantia. 

To Love and Bacchus, ever young, 

While sage Anacreon touch'd the lyre 
He neither felt the loves he sung, 

Nor fill'd his bowl to Bacchus higher. 
Those flowery days had faded long, 

When youth could act the lover's part; 
And passion trembled in his song, 

But never, never reach'd his heart. 

2 Anacreon's character has been variously coloured 
Barnes lingers on it with enthusiastic admiration, but he is 
always extravagant, if not sometimes even profane. Mon- 
sieur Baillet, who is in the opposite extreme, exaggerates 
too much the testimonies which he has consulted ; and we 
cannot surely agree with him when he cites such a compiler 
as Athenaeus, as " un des plus savans critiques de 1'anti- 
quite." — Ju<remenl des Savans, M.C.V. 

Barnes could not have read the passage to which he re- 
fers, when he accuses Le Fevre of having censured our 
poet's character in a note on Longinus, the note in question 
is manifest irony, in allusion to some reprenension which 
Le Fevre had suffered for his Anacreon; and it is evident 
that praise rather than censure is intimated. See Johannes 
Vulpius de Utililate Poetices, who vindicates our poet's 
reputation. 

3 Johannes Faber, in his description of the coin of Ursi 
nus, mentions a head on a very beautiful cornelian, which 
he supposes was worn in a ring by some admirer of the poet. 
In the Iconographia of Canini there is a youthful head of 
Anacreon from a Grecian medal, with the letters TEIOS 
around it ; on the reverse there is a Neptune, holding a speai 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



235 



After the very enthusiastic eulogiums bestowed by 
the ancients and moderns upon the poems of Ana- 
creon, 1 we need not be diffident in expressing our 
raptures at their beauty, nor hesitate to pronounce 
them the most polished remains of antiquity. 2 They 
are all beauty, all enchantment. 3 He steals us so in- 
sensibly along with him, that we sympathize even in 
his excesses. In his amatory odes there is a delicacy 
of compliment not to be found in any other ancient 
poet. Love at that period was rather an unrefined 
emotion ; and the intercourse of the sexes was ani- 
mated more by passion than sentiment. They knew 
not those little tendernesses which form the spiritual 
part of affection ; their expression of feeling was 
therefore rude and unvaried, and the poetry of Love 
deprived of its most captivating graces. Anacreon, 
however, attained some ideas of this gallantry ; and 
the same delicacy of mind which led him to this re- 
finement prevented him from yielding to the freedom 
of language, which has sullied the pages of all the 
other poets. His descriptions are warm ; but the 
warmth is in the ideas, not the words. He is sportive 
without being wanton, and ardent without being 
licentious. His poetic invention is most brilliantly 
displayed in those allegorical fictions which so many 
have endeavoured to imitate, because all have con- 
fessed them to be inimitable. Simplicity is the dis- 
tinguishing feature of these odes, and they interest by 
their innocence, while they fascinate by their beauty : 
they are, indeed, the infants of the Muses, and may 
be said to lisp in numbers. 

I shall not be accused of enthusiastic partiality by 



in his right hand, and a dolphin in the left, with the word 
TlANiiN, inscribed, " volendoci denotare (saysCanini) che 
quelle cittadini la coniassero in honore del suo compatriota 
poeta." There is also among the coins of de Wilde, one 
which, though it bears no effigy, was probably struck to the 
memory of Anacreon. It has the word THliiN, encircled 
with an ivy crown. " At quidni respicit hrec corona Ana- 
creontem, nobilem lyricuml" — De Wilde. 

1 Besides those which are extant, he wrote hymns, ele- 
gies, epigrams, etc. Some of the epigrams still exist. Ho- 
race alludes to a poem of his upon the rivalry of Circe and 
Penelope in the affections of Ulysses, lib. i. od. 17.^ The 
scholiast upon Nicander cites a fragment from a. poem upon 
sleep, by Anacreon, and attributes to him likewise a medi- 
cinal treatise. Fulgentius mentions a work of his upon the 
war between Jupiter and the Titans, and the origin of the 
consecration of the eagle. 

2 See Horace, Maximus Tyrius, etc. " His style (says 
Scaliger) is sweeter than the juice of the Indian reed." 
Poetices, lib. i. cap. 44. — " From the softness of his verses 
(says Olaus Borrichius) the ancients bestowed on him the 
epithets sweet, delicate, graceful, etc." Dissertationes Aca- 
demics, de Poetis, diss. 2. — Scaliger again praises him in a 
Dun ; speaking of the A"*-°s, or ode, " Anacreon autern non 
solum dedit hajc peKti, sed etiam in ipsis mella." — See the 
passage of Rapin, quoted by all the editors. I cannot omit 
citing the following very spirited apostrophe of the author 
of the Commentary prefixed to the Parma edition : " O vos, 
sublimes anim;p, vos, Apollinis alumni, qui post unum Alc- 
manem in totaHellade lyricam poesim exsuscitastis,coluistis, 
amnlificaslis, quasso vos an ullus unquam fuerit vates qui 
Teio cantori vel naturae candore vel metri suavitatepalmam 
prreripuerit." See likewise Vincenzo Gravini della Rag. 
Poetic, libro primo, p. 97. — Among the Ritralti del Cavalier 
Marino, there is one of Anacreon beginning Cingetemi la 
fronte, etc. etc. 

3 "We may perceive," says Vossius, " that the iteration 
ef his words conduces very much to the sweetness of his 
etyle." Henry Stephen remarks the same beauty in a note 
on the forty-fourth ode. This figure of iteration is his most 
appropriate grace. Tks modern writers of Juvenilia and 
Basia have adopted it to an excess which destroys the 

ffect. 



those who have read and felt the original; but to 
others I am conscious that this should not be the lan- 
guage of a translator, whose faint reflection of these 
beauties can but little justify his admiration of them. 

In the age of Anacreon music and poetry were in- 
separable. These kindred talents were for a long 
time associated, and the poet always sung his own 
compositions to the lyre. It is probable that they were 
not set to any regular air, but rather a kind of musical 
recitation, which was varied according to the fancy 
and feelings of the moment. 1 The poems of Ana- 
creon were sung at banquets as late as the time of 
Aulus Gellius, who tells us that he heard one of the 
odes performed at a birth-day entertainment. 2 

The singular beauty of our poet's style, and per- 
haps the careless facility with which he appears to 
have trifled, have induced, as I remarked, a number 
of imitations. Some have succeeded with wonder- 
ful felicity, as may be discerned in the few odes 
which are attributed to writers of a later period. But 
none of his emulators have been so dangerous to his 
fame as those Greek ecclesiastics of the early ages, 
who, conscious of inferiority to their prototypes, de- 
termined on removing the possibility of comparison, 
and, under a semblance of moral zeal, destroyed the 
most exquisite treasures of antiquity. 3 Sappho and 
Alca3us were among the victims of this violation ; and 
the sweetest flowers of Grecian literature fell be- 
neath the rude hand of ecclesiastical presumption. 
It is true they pretended that this sacrifice of genius 
was canonized by the interests of religion ; but I have 
already assigned the most probable motive ; 4 and if 
Gregorius Nazianzenus had not written Anacreon- 
tics, we might now perhaps have the works of the 
Teian unmutilated, and be empowered to say exult- 
ingly with Horace, 

Nee si quid ohm lusit Anacreon 
Delevit ajtas. 

The zeal by which these bishops professed to be ac- 
tuated gave birth, more innocently, indeed, to an 
absurd species of parody, as repugnant to piety as it 
is to taste, where the poet of voluptuousness was 
made a preacher of che gospel, and his muse, like the 
Venus in armour at Lacedremon, was arrayed in all 
the severities of priestly instruction. Such was the 



1 In the Paris edition there are four of the original odea 
set to music, by citizens Le Sueur, Gossec, Mehul, arj;*. Che- 
rubini. " On chante du Latin et de l'ltalien," says Gail, 
"quelquefois meme sans les entendre; qui empeche que 
nous ne chantions des odes Grecques ?" The chromatic 
learning of these composers is very unlike what we are told 
of the simple melody of the ancients ; and they have all 
mistaken the accentuation of the words. 

2 The Parma commentator is rather careless in referring 
to this passage of Aulus Gellius (lib. xix. cap. 9.) — The ode 
was not sung by the rhetorician Julianus, as he says, but 
by the minstrels of both sexes, who were introduced at the 
entertainment. 

3 See what Colomesius, in his " Literary Treasures," has 
quoted from Alcyonius de Exilio: it may be found in Bax- 
ter. Colomesius, after citing the passage, adds, " Hajc auro 
contra cara noa potui non apponere." 

4 We may perceive by the beginning of the first hymn of 
Bishop Synesius, that he made Anacreon and Sappho hit 
models of composition. 



A? 


-s y.oi, 


Xvyi 


X 


qap/Aiyl 


M 


T« T>) 




etc 


i a 


»v, 


lit 


tx Aso-Gi 


XV 


Ti 


IjL0\7TXV 



Margunius and Damascenus were likewise authors of piou* 
Anacreontics 



236 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



" Anacreon Recantatus," by Caroltis de Aquino, a 
Jesuit, published 1701, which consisted of a series of 
palinodes to the several songs of our poet. Such too 
was the Christian Anacreon of Patrignanus, another 
Jesuit, 1 who preposterously transferred to a most 
sacred subject all that Anacreon had sung to festivity. 

His metre has been very frequently adopted by the 
modern Latin poets. Scaliger, Taubmannus, Bar- 
thius, 2 and others, have evinced that it is by no 
means uncongenial with that language. 3 The Ana- 
creontics of Scaliger, however, scarcely deserve the 
name ; they are glittering with conceits, and, though 
often elegant, are always laboured. The beautiful 
fictions of Angerianus, 4 have preserved, more hap- 
pily than any, the delicate turn of those allegorical 
fables, which, frequently passing through the me- 
diums of version and imitation, have generally lost 
their finest rays in the transmission. Many of the 
Italian poets have sported on the subjects, and in the 
manner of Anacreon. Bernardo Tasso first introduced 
the metre, which was afterwards polished and en- 
riched by Chabriera and others. 5 If we may judge 
by the references of Degen, the German language 
abounds in Anacreontic imitations • and Hagedorn 6 
is one among many who have assumed him as a 
model. La Farre, Chaulieu, and the other light poets 
of France, have professed too to cultivate the muse 
of Teos ; but they have attained all her negligence, 
with little of the grace that embellishes it. In the 
delicate bard of Chiras 7 we find the kindred spirit of 
Anacreon : some of his gazelles, or songs, possess 
all the character of our poet. 

We come now to a retrospect of the editions of 
Anacreon. To Henry Stephen we are indebted for 
having first recovered his remains from the obscurity 
in which they had reposed for so many ages. He 
found the seventh ode, as we are told, on the cover 
of an old book, and communicated it to Victorius, 
who mentions the circumstance in his "Various 
Readings." Stephen was then very young ; and this 
discovery was considered by some critics of that day 



1 This, perhaps, is the " Jesuita quidam Grosculus 1 ' al- 
luded to by Barnes, who has himself composed an At/axpsajv 
Xpia-riai'oj, as absurd as the rest, but somewhat more skil- 
fully executed. 

21 have seen somewhere an account of the MSS. of Bar- 
thius, written just after his death, which mentions many 
more Anacreontics of his than I believe have ever been pub- 
lished. 

3 Thus too Alberlus, a Danish poet: 

Fidii tui minister 
Gaudebo semper esse 
Gaudebo semper illi 
Litare thure mulso ; 
Gaudebo semper ilium 
Laudare pumilillis 
Anacreonticillis. 

See the Danish Poets collected by Rostgaard. 

These pretty littlenesses defy translation. There is a very 
Deautiful Anacreontic by Hugo Grotius. See lib. i. Far- 
raginis. 

4 From Angerianus, Prior has taken his most elegant 
Mythological subjects. 

5 See Cresimbeni, Historia della Volg. Poes. 

6 L'aimable Hagedorn vaut. quelquefois Anacreon. Do- 
lat, Idee f:e la Poesie Allemande. 

7 See Toderini on the learning of the Turks, as translated 
by De Cournard. Prince Cantemir has made the Russians 
acquainted with Anacreon. See bis life, prefixed to a trans- 
ition of his Satires, by the Abbe de Guasco. 



as a literary imposition. 1 In 1554, however, he gave 
Anacreon to the world, 2 accompanied with Annota- 
tions and a Latin version of the greater part of the 
odes. The learned still hesitated to receive them as 
the relics of the Teian bard, and suspected them to 
be the fabrication of some monks of the sixteenth 
century. This was an idea from which the classic 
muse recoiled ; and the Vatican manuscript, con- 
sulted by Scaliger and Salmasius, confirmed the an- 
tiquity of most of the poems. A very inaccurate 
copy of this MS. was taken by Isaac Vossius, and 
this is the authority which Barnes has followed in his 
collation ; accordingly he misrepresents almost as 
often as he quotes ; and the subsequent editors, rely- 
ing upon him, have spoken of the manuscript with 
not less confidence than ignorance. The literary 
world has, at length, been gratified with this curi- 
ous memorial of the poet, by the industry of the 
Abbe Spaletti, who, in 1781. published at Rome a 
fac-simile of the pages of the Vatican manuscript, 
which contained the odes of Anacreon. 3 

Monsier Gail, has given a catalogue of all the edi- 
tions and translations of Anacreon. I find their num- 
ber to be much greater than I could possibly have 
had an opportunity of consulting. I shall therefore 
content myself with enumerating those editions only 
which I have been able to collect ; they are very 
few, but I believe they are the most important : — 

The edition by Henry Stephen, 1554, at Paris — 
the Latin version is, by Colomesius, attributed to 
John Dorat. 4 

The old French translations, by Ronsard and Bel- 
leau — the former published in 1555, the latter in 
1556. It appears that Henry Stephen communicated 
his manuscript of Anacreon to Rcnsard before he 
published it, by a note of Muretus upon one of tho 
sonnets of that poet. 5 

The edition of Le Fevre, 1660. 

The edition by Madame Dacier, 1681, with a prose 
translation. 6 



J Robertellus, in his work "DeRatione corrigendi," pto- 
nounces these verses to be triflings of some insipid Graesist, 
2 Ronsard commemorates this event: 



Je vay boire a Henri Etienne 
Qui des enfers nousa rendu, 
Du vieil Anacreon perdu, 

La douce lyre Teienne. 



Ode xv. book 5. 



I fill the bowl to Stephen's name, 

Who rescued from the gloom of night 

The Teian bard of festive fame, 
And brought his living lyre to light. 

3 This manuscript, which Spaletti thinks as old as the 
tenth century, was brought from the Palatine into the Va- 
tican library ; it is a kind of anthology of Greek epigrams ; 
and in the 67(3th page of jt are found the * J ui» i u*'» <rv/*a-o- 
<j-i*x* of Anacreon. 

4 " Le meme (M. Vossius) m'a dit qu'il avait possede un 
Anacreon, on Scaliger avait marque de sa main, qu'Henri 
Etienne n' etait pns l'auteur de la version Latine des od # es 
de ce poete, mais Jean Dorat." Paulus Colomesius, Parti- 
cularites. 

Colomesius, however, seems to have relied too implicitly 
on Vossius: almost all these Particulates begin with "M. 
Vossius m'a dit." 

5 "La fiction de ce sonnet, comme l'auteur meme m'a 
dit, est prise d'une ode d'Anacreon, encore non imprimis 
qu'il a depuis traduite, <ru f*sv (?ix.» %sKtSuv." 

6 The author of Nouvelles de la Repub.des Lett, praises 
this translation very liberally. I have always thought it 
vague and spiritless. 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



237 



The edition by Longepierre, 1684, with a transla- 
tion in verse. 

The edition by Baxter ; London, 1695. 

A French translation by La Fosse, 1704. 

"L'Histoire des Odes d' Anacreon," by Monsieur 
Gacon; Rotterdam, 1712. 

A translation in English verse, by several hands, 
1713, in which the odes by Cowley are inserted. 

The edition by Barnes; London, 1721. 

The edition by Dr. Trapp, 1733, with a Latin ver- 
sion in elegiac metre. 

A translation in English verse, by John Addison, 
1735. 

A collection of Italian translations of Anacreon, 
published at Venice, 1736, consisting of those by 
Corsini, Regnier, 1 Salyini, Marchetti, and one by se- 
veral anonymous authors. 2 

A translation in English verse, by Fawkes and 
Doctor Broome, 1760. 3 

Another, anonymous, 1763. 

The edition by Spaletti, at Rome, 1781 ; with the 
fac-simile of the Vatican MS. 

The edition by Degen, 1786, who published also a 
German translation of Anacreon, esteemed the best. 

A translation in English verse, by Urquhart, 1787. 

The edition by Citoyen Gail, at Paris, seventh 
year, 1799, with a prose translation. 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



ODE I.* 

I saw the smiling bard of pleasure, 
The minstrel of the Teian measure ; 
'T was in a vision of the night, 
He beam'd upon my wandering sight : 
I heard his voice, and warmly press'd 
The dear enthusiast to my breast. 
His tresses wore a silvery die, 
But beauty sparkled in his eye ; 
Sparkled in his eyes of fire, 
Through the mist of soft desire. 



1 The notes of Regnier are not inserted in this edition : 
they must he interesting, as they were for the most part 
communicated hy the ingenious Menage, who, we may per- 
ceive, bestowed some research on the subject, by a passage 
in the Menagiana — " C est aussi lui (M. Bigot) qui s'est 
donne la peine de conferer des manuscrits en Iialie dans le 
temps que je travaillais sur Anacreon '* — Menagiana, secon- 
de partie. » 

'2 I find in Haym's Notizia de' L ; br: rari, an Italian trans- 
lation mentioned, by Caponne in Venice, 1670. 

'A Th s is the most complete of the English translations. 

4 This ode is the first of the series in the Vatican manu- 
script, which attributes it to no other poet than Anacreon. 
They who assert that the manuscript imputes it to Basilius 
have been misled by the words T:-j *ut:u S*(riA.*xa>s in the 
margin, which are merely intended as a title to the follow- 
ing ode. Whether it be the production of Anacreon or not, 
it has all the features of ancient simplicity, and is a beautiful 
imitation of the poet's happiest manner. 

Sparkled in his eyes of fire, 

Through the mist of soft desire.) " How could he know 
nt the first look (says Baxter) that the poet was = «\suvocl" 
There are surely many tell-tales of this propensity; and the 
following are the indices, which the physiognomist gives, 
describing a disposition perhaps not unlike that of Anacreon: 

0~ixK,ur\ ■/.}.■• ''.uivn, ■/.u,uv.tvo\'Tig iv ssutoi?, E»£ xSpoSi 
o x.ti viTrxinxv t7rTj-/ l vT2.i' our: Si xSixOi. cut; xgexovp- 



His lip exhaled, whene'er he sigh'd, 
The fragrance of the racy tide ; 
And, as with weak and reeling feet, 
He came my cordial kiss to meet, 
An infant of the Cyprian band 
Guided him on with tender hand. 
Quick from his glowing brows he drew 
His braid,. of many a wanton hue; 
I took the braid of wanton twine, 
It breathed of him and blush 'd with wine 
I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow, 
And ah ! I feel its magic now ! 
I feel that even his garland's touch 
Can make the bosom love too much ! 



ODE II. 

Give me the harp of epic song, 
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along ; 
But tear away the sanguine string, 
For war is not the theme I sing. 
Proclaim the laws of festal rite, 
I'm monarch of the board to-night; 
And all around shall brim as high, 
And quaff the tide as deep as I ! 
And when the cluster's mellowing dews 
Their warm, enchanting balm infuse, 
Our feet shall catch the elastic bound, 
And reel as through the dance's round 
Oh Bacchus ! we shall sing to thee, 
In wild but sweet ebriety ! 
And flash around such sparks of thought, 
As Bacchus could alone have taught ! 



yo>, cuts c?ucs.uc $»uXv)C, outs ctpovcroi, — Adamantius 
"The eyes that are humid and fluctuating show a piopen- 
sity to pleasure and love; they bespeak too a mind of in- 
tegrity and beneficence, a generosity of disposition, and a 
genius for poetry." 

Baptista Porta tells us some strange opinions of the an- 
cient physiognomists on the subject, their reasons for which 
were curious, and perhaps not altogether fanciful. — V'de 
Physiognom. Juhan. Baptist. Porta. 

I tonic the braid of wanton twine, 

It breathed of him, etc.] Pliilostratus has the same thought 
in one of his Ep^Tiic*, where he speaks of the garland which 
he had sent to his mistress. E* Si ttovKei ti <p*Aw %xptCta- 

3X», T« X. S*;J/0tl/ St CtVTl7TS l U\ ! /0V, JK1JXSTI 7TV10VTX poJ'juV fiOVOf 

xxxx *.»« o-ou. "If thou art inclined to gratify thy lover, 
send him back the remains of the garland, no longer breath- 
ing of roses only, but of thee!" Which pretty conceit is 
borrowed fas the author of the Observer remarks) in a well- 
known little song of Ben Jonsoh's: — 

" But thou thereon didst only breathe, 

And sent it back to me ; 
Since when, it looks and smells, I swear, 
Not of itself, but thee !" 

And ah! I feci its magic now!] This idea, as Longe 
pierre remarks, is in an epigram of the seventh book of ths 
Anthologia. 

'ErOTl f*0t 7TIV0VTI <TVVl<rTX0V<rX XxptxK'J} 

AxSpvi tou; iSiovg xp^t^xKi (TTe^avous, 
IIup 0A.O0V Sx—Tii ftc. 

While I unconscious quaff'd my wine, 

'T was then thy fingers slily stole 
Upon my brow that wreath of thine, 
Which since has madden'd all my soul! 
Proclaim the laws of festal rite.] The ancients pre- 
scribed certain laws of drinking at their festivals, for an ac- 
count of which see the commentators. Anacreon here acta 
the symposiarch, or master of the festival. I have tranc 
lated according to those who .consider x.v7riKXx i'o-fiuv at 
an inversion of Sso-^ouc hm-iaKuiv. 



23S 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Then give the harp of epic song, 
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along ; 
But tear away the sanguine string, 
For war is not the theme I sing ! 



ODE HI.' 

Listen to the Muse's lyre, 
Master of the pencil's fire ! 
Sketch'd in painting's bold display, 
Many a city first pourtray; 
Many a city, revelling free, 
Warm with loose festivity. 
Picture then a rosy train, 
Bacchants straying o'er the plain ; 
Piping, as they roam along, 
Roundelay or shepherd-song. 
Paint me next, if painting may 
Such a theme as this pourtray, 
All the happy heaven of love, 
These elect of Cupid prove. 



ODE IV. 2 

Vulcan ! hear your glorious task ; 
I do not from your labours ask 
In gorgeous panoply to shine, 
For war was ne'er a sport of mine 
No — let me have a silver bowl, 
Where I may cradle all my soul; 
But let not o'er its simple frame 
Vour mimic constellations flame 
Nor grave upon the swelling side 
Orion, scowling o'er the tide. 
I care not for the glittering wane, 
Nor yet the weeping sister train. 
But oh ! let vines luxuriant roll 
Their blushing tendrils round the bowl. 
While many a rose-lipp'd bacchant maid 
Is culling clusters in their shade. 
Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes, 
Wildly press the gushing grapes ; 
Ana flights of loves, in wanton ringlets, 
Flit around on golden winglets ; 
While Verius, to her mystic bower, 
Beckons the rosy vintage-Power. 



1 Monsit .r La Fosse has thought proper to lengthen this 
poem bv considerable interpolations of his own, which he 
thinks aie indispensably necessary to the completion of the 
description. 

2 This is the ode which Anlus Gellius tells us was per- 
formed by minstrels at an entertainment where he was pre- 
sent. 

While mavy a rosc-lipp'd bacchant maid, etc.] I have 
fiven this according to the Vatican manuscript, in which 
.no ode concludes with the following lines, not inserted ac- 
?urately in any of the editions : 

lIo»n<rot/ xu-<\r>vg /"0< 

Kxi f£orpuz^ xaT 1 xvrwv 

Kx* /asinixSxg Tpuycuir:*;, 

Hoist Se \yvov oivou, 

Av;V'0S=STX; 5T5ST0U1/TK;, 

Tovg o-a-rupou; yeX.«vTa;, 
Ka* xpvvc-JS tod; sp'-otjcsj 

*CVou xxA.<jj Au»«u>, 

SpuJTtt X' ACpoJcDJP. 



ODE V. 1 

Grave me a cup with brilliant grace, 
Deep as the rich and holy vase, 
Which on the shrine of Spring reposes. 
When shepherds hail that hour of roses 
Grave it with themes of chaste design, 
Form'd for a heavenly bowl like mine. 
Display not there the barbarous rites 
In which religious zeal delights ; 
Nor any tale of tragic fate, 
Which history trembles to relate! 
No — cull thy fancies from above, 
Themes of heaven and themes of love 
Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy, 
Distil the grapes in drops of joy, 
And while he smiles at every tear, 
Let warm-eyed Venus, dancing near 
With spirits of the genial bed, 
The dewy herbage deftly tread. 
Let Love be there, without his arms, 
In timid nakedness of charms ; 
And all the Graces link'd with Love," 
Blushing through the shadowy grove ; 
While rosy boys, disporting round, 
In circles trip the velvet ground ; 
But ah ! if there Apollo toys, 
I tremble for my rosy boys ! 



ODE VI. 2 
As late I sought the spangled bowers, 
To cull a wreath of matin flowers, 






1 Degen thinks that this ode is a more modern imitation 
of the pieceding. There is a poem by Camus Calesigninus 
in the manner of both, where lie gives instructions about the 
making of a ring. 

Tornabis annulum mihi 

Et fubre, et ajite, et commode, etc. etc. 

Let Love be there, without his arms, etc.] Thus Sanna- 
zaro in the eclogue of Gallicio neli' Arcadia: 
Vegtian li vaghi Amori 
Senza fiammolle, 6 strali, 
Scherzando insieme pargoletti e nudi. 

Fluttering on the busy wing, 

A train of naked Cupids came, 
Sporting round in harmless ring, 

Without a dart, without a flame. 

And thus in the Pervigilium Veneris; 

Ite nymphue, p6su.il arma, feriatus est amor. 

Love is disarm'd — ye nymphs, in safety stray, 
Your bosoms now may boast a holiday! 
But ah! if there Apollo toys, 

1 tremble for my rosy boys!] An allusion to the fable, 
that Apollo hud killed his beloved boy Hyacinth, while 
playing with him at quoits. "This (says M. La Fosse) is 
assuredly the sense of the text, and it cannot admit of any 
other." 

The Italian translators, to save themselves the trouole of 
a note, have taken the liberty of making Aoacreon explain 
this fable. Thus Salvini, the most literal of any of them : 

Ma con lor non giuochi Apollo; 

Che in fiero risco 

Col duro disco 

A Giacinto fiacco ll collo. 

2 The Vatican MS. pronounces this beautiful fiction to Ixi 
the genuine offspring of Anacreon. It has all the feature* 
of the parent: 

et facile insciis 
Noscitetur ab omnibus. 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



239 



Where many an early rose was weeping, 
[ found the urchin Cupid sleeping. 
I caught the boy, a goblet's tide 
Was richly mantling by my side, 
I caught him by his downy wing, 
And whelm'd him in the racy spring. 
Oh ! then I drank the poison'd bowl, 
And Love now nestles in my soul ! 
Yes, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest, 
I feel him fluttering in my breast. 



ODE VII. 1 

The women tell me every day 

That all my bloom has past away. 

" Behold," the pretty wantons cry, 

" Behold this mirror with a sigh j 

The locks upon thy brow are few, 

And, like the rest, they're withering too !" 

Whether decline has thinn'd my hair, 

I'm sure I neither know nor care : 



The commentators, however, have attributed it to Julian, 
a royal poet. 

Where many an early rose was weeping; 

I found the urchin Cupid sleeping.] This idea is pret- 
tily imitated in the following epigram by Andreas Nauge- 
rius: 

Florentes dum forte vagans mea Hyella per hortos 

Texit odoratis lilia cana rosis, \ 

Ecce rosas inter latitantem invenit amorem 

Et simul annexis rloribus implicuit. 
Luctalur primo, et contra nitentibus alis 

Indomitus tentat solvere vincla puer, 
Mox ubi lacteolas et dignas matre papillag 

Vidit et ora ipsos nota movere Deos. 
Impositosque coma? ambrosios ut sentit odores 

Quosque legit diti messe beatus Arabs; 
" I (dixit) mea, qucere novum tibi mater amorem, 

Imperio sedes hcec erit apta meo." 

As fair Hyella, through the bloomy grove, 
A wreath of many mingled flow'rets wove, 
Within a rose a sleeping love she found, 
And in the twisted wreaths the baby bound. 
Awhile he struggled, and impatient tried 
To break the rosy bonds the virgin tied ; 
But when he saw her bosom's milky swell, 
Her features, where the eye of Jove might dwell; 
And caught the ambrosial odours of her hair, 
Rich as the breathings of Arabian air; 
"Oh! mother Venus" (said the raptured child 
By charms, of more than mortal bloom, beguiled,) 
" Go, seek another hoy, thou'st lost thine own, 
Hyella's bosom shall be Cupid's throne !" 

This epigram of Naugerius is imitated by Lodovico Dolce, 
in a poem beginning 

Montre raccoglie hor uno, hor altro fiore 
Vicina a un rio di chiare et lucid' onde, 
Lidia, etc. etc. 

1 Alberli has imitated this ode, in a poem beginning 
Nisa mi dice e Clori 
Tirsi, tu se' pur veglio. 
fVhether decline has thinn'd my hair, 
I'm sure. I neither know nor care.} Henry Stephen very 
justly remarks the elegant negligence of expression in the 
original here : 

Ey-ju Si ti; -/.Oftxg fitv 
Ei-r' £i<riv, 6*t' ajr^XOOV 
O-jz' oiXx. 

And Longepierre has adduced from Catullus what he thinks 
a similar instance of this simplicity of manner : 

Ipse quis sit, utrum sit, an non sit, id quoque nescit. 

Longepierre was a good critic, but perhaps the line which 
he has selected is a specimen of a carelessness not very ele- 



But this I know, and this I feel, 
As onward to the tomb I steal, 
That still as death approaches nearer, 
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer ; 
And had I but an hour to live, 
That little hour to bliss I'd give ! 



ODE VIII. 1 
I care not for the idle state 
Of Persia's king, the rich, the great! 
I envy not the monarch's throne, 
Nor wish the treasured gold my own. 
But oh ! be mine the rosy braid, 
The fervour of my brows to shade ; 
Be mine the odours, richly sighing, 
Amidst my hoary tresses flying. 
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine, 
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine ; 
But if to-morrow comes, why then — 
I'll haste to quaff my wine again. 



gant; at the same time I confess, that none of the Latin 
poets have ever appeared to me so capable of imitating the 
graces of Anacreon as Catullus, if he had not allowed a 
depraved imagination to hurry him so often into vulval 
licentiousness. 

That still as death approaches nearer, 
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;] Pontanus lias a 
very delicate thought upon the subject of old age. 

Quid rides, Matrona? sencm qdd lemnis amanleml 
Quisquis amat nulla est conditione senex. 
Why do you scorn my want of youth, 
And with a smile my brow behold? 
Lady, dear ! believe this truth 
That he who loves cannot be old. 

1 "The German poet Lessinghas imitated this ode. VoL 
i. p. 24."— Degen. Gail de Edltionibus. 

Baxter conjectures that this was written upon the occa- 
sion of our poet's returning the money to Policrates, accord 
ing to the anecdote in Stoba?us. 

I care not for the idle state 

Of Persia's kino-, etc.] " There is a fragment of Archi 
lochus in Plutarch, 'De tranquillitate animi,' which our 
poet lias very closely imitated here : it begins, 

Ou fiOt t* TvytM tou jroXoxpucrou ftiKsi. — Barnes. 
In one of the monkish imitators of Anacreon we find the 
same thought. 

Tup^v tfiviv epa>Ta), 

Ti <rci 3-iXsi? ysvsvoxi; 

©j\s<S Tvytui, ts xxt tss; 

Be mine the odours, richly sighing, 

Amidst my hoary tresses fiyin<s.] In the original, ,uvpo <<r» 
xxTaSps^siv u/r>)i')ji'. ©n account of this idea of perfuming 
the beard, Cornelius de Pauw pronounces the whole ode lo 
be the spurious production of some lascivious monk, who 
was nursing his beard with unguents. But he should have 
known that this was an ancient eastern custom, which, if wo 
may believe Savary, still exists: "Vous voyez, Monsieur 
(says this traveller,) que 1'usage antique de se parfumer la 
tete et la barbe, (a) celebre par le prophete Roi, subsisie 
encore de nos jours." — Lettre 12. Savary likewise cites 
this very ode of Anacreon. Angerianus has not thought 
the idea inconsistent; he has introduced it in the following 
lines: 

Haec mihi cura, rosis et cingere tempora'myrto, 

Et curas multo dilapidare mero. 
Hxc mihi cura, comas et barbam tingere succo 
Assyrio et dulces continuare jocos. 

This be my care to twine the rosy wreath, 
And drench my soriows in the ample bowl , 

To let my heard the Assyrian unguent breathe, 
And give a loose tc levity of soul ! 

(a) " Sicul vvguenturn in capite quod descendit in hat 
ham Aaron. — Psaume 133." 



240 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



And thus while all our days are bright, 

Nor time has dimm'd their bloomy light, 

Let us the festal hours beguile 

With mantling cup and cordial smile ; 

And shed from every bowl of wine 

The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine ! 

For death may come with brow unpleasant, 

May come when least we wish him present, 

And beckon to the sable shore, 

And grimly bid us — drink no more ! 



ODE IX. 1 

I pray thee, by the gods above, 
Give me the mighty bowl I love, 
And let me sing, in wild delight, 
" I will — I will be mad to-night!" 
Alcmaeon once, as legends tell, 
Was frenzied by the fiends of hell ; 
Orestes too, with naked tread, 
Frantic paced the mountain head ; 
And why ? — a murder'd mother's shad8 
Eefore their conscious fancy play'd ; 
But I can ne'er a murderer be, 
The grape alone shall bleed by me ; 
Yet can I rave, in wild delight, 
" I will— I will be mad to-night." 
The son of Jove, in days of yore 
Imbrued his hands in youthful gore, 
And brandish'd, with a maniac joy, 
The quiver of the expiring boy : 
And Ajax, with tremendous shield, 
Infuriate scour'd the guiltless field. 
But I, whose hands no quiver hold, 
No weapon but this flask of gold, 
The trophy of whose frantic hours 
Is but a scatter'd wreath of flowers ; 
Yet, yet can sing with wild delight, 
"I will — I will be mad to-night !" 



ODE X. 2 
Tell me how to punish thee, 
For the mischief done to me ! 
Silly swallow ! prating thing, 

Shall 1 clip that wheeling wing? 



1 The poet here is 
deed, " amabilis insa: 



a frenzy of enjoyment, and it is, in- 

Funir di poesia, 
Di ktscivia, c di vino, 
Tripticato furore, 
Bacco, Apollo, et Amnre. 

Ritralti del Cavalier Marino. 

This is, as Scaliger expresses it, 

Insanire dulce, 

Ltsapidum furore furorem. 

2 This od« is addressed to a swallow. Tfind from Degen 

and from Gail's index, that the German poet Weisse has 

'' it, S.-herz. Lie&cr. lib. ii. carm. 5 ; that Ramler 

also has imitated it, Lyr. Blnmenlese, lib. iv. p. 335; and 

Bome others. — See Gail de Editionibus. 

We are referred by Degen to that stupid book, the Epis- 
tles of Alciphon, tenth epistle, third book; where Iophon 
complains to Erasfbn of being wakened, by the crowing of 
a cock, from his vision of riches. 

Silly swallow ! prating thing, etc-] The loquacity of the 
iwallovv was proverbialized ; thus Nicostratus: 



Or, as Tereus did of old 
(So the fabled tale is told,) 
Shall I tear that tongue away, 
Tongue that utter'd such a lay ? 
How unthinking hast thou been ! 
Long before the dawn was seen, 
When I slumber'd in a dream, 
(Love was the delicious theme !) 
Just when I was nearly blest, 
Ah ! thy matin broke my rest ! 



ODE XI.' 
" Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee, 
What in purchase shall I pay thee 
For this little waxen toy, 
Image of the Paphian boy?" 
Thus I said, the other day, 
To a youth who pass'd my way. 
" Sir," (he answer' d, and the while 
Answer'd all in Doric style,) 
" Take it, for a trifle take it ; 
Think not yet that I could make it ; 
Pray believe it was not I ; 
No — it cost me many a sigh, 
And I can no longer keep 
Little gods who murder sleep !" 
"Here, then, here," I said, with joy, 
Here is silver for the boy : 
He shall be my bosom guest, 
Idol of my pious breast!" 
Little Love ! thou now art mine, 
Warm me with that torch of thine ; 
Make me feel as I have felt, 
Or thy waxen frame shall melt. 
I must burn in warm desire, 
Or thou, my boy, in yonder fire ! 



ODE XII. 

They tell how Atys, wild with love, 
Roams the mount and haunted grove ; 2 



E< to <rvi/s%a>5 zezi ttoKKx xxi t*%Sd; \x\av 
Hv tou (ppovsiv Tz-xpu.<rvi,uov, at y^eXtSovti; 
^.KiyavT 1 av h/umv <rw$pov£(TTep%i -zrOXv. 

If in prating from morning till night, 

A sign of our wisdom there be, 
The swallows are wiser by right, 

For they prattle much faster than we. 
Or, as Tereus did of old, etc.] Modern poetry has con 
firmed the name of Philomel upon the nightingale ; but many 
very respectable ancients assigned this metamorphose to 
Progne, and made Philomel the swallow, as Anacreon does 
here 

1 It is difficult to preserve with any grace the narrative 
simplicity of this ode, and the humour of the turn with which 
it concludes. I feel that the translation must appear ver 
vapid, if not ludicrous, to an English reader. 
And I can no longer keep 

Little gods, who murder sleep .'] I have not literally 
rendered the epithet zrxvToptxrx- ; if it has any meaning 
here, it is one, perhaps, better omitted. 

1 must burn in warm desire, 

Or thou, my boy, in yonder fire !] Monsieur Lcr.gcpierre 
conjectures from this, that, whatever Anacreon might sav, 
he sometimes felt the inconveniences of old age, and here 
solicits from the power of Love a warmth which he could 
no longer expect from Nature. 

2 They tell how Mys, wild with love, 

Roams the mount and haunted grove.] There are many 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



241 



Cybele's name he howls around, 
The gloomy blast returns the sound ! 
Oft too by Claros' hallow'd spring, 
The votaries of the laurell'd king 
Quaff the inspiring magic stream, 
And rave in wild prophetic dream. 
But frensied dreams are not for me, 
Great Bacchus is my deity ! 
Full of mirth, and full of him, 
While waves of perfume round me sw 7 im 
While flavour'd bowls are full supplied, 
And you sit blushing by my side, 
I will be mad and raving too — 
Mad, my girl ! with love for you ! 



ODE XIII. 

I will, I will ; the conflict 's past, 
And I '11 consent to love at last. 
Cupid has long, with smiling art, 
Invited me to yield my heart ; 
And I have thought that peace of mind 
Should not be for a smile resign'd ; 
And I 've repell'd the tender lure, 
And hoped my heart should sleep secure. 
But slighted in his boasted charms, 
The angry infant flew to arms ; 
He slung Ins quiver's golden frame, 
He took his bow, his shafts of flame, 
And proudly summon'd me to yield, 
Or meet him on the martial field. 
And what did I unthinking do ? 
I took to arms, undaunted too : — 



contradictory stories of the loves of Cybele and Atys. It is 
certain that he was mutilated, but whether by his own fury, 
or her jealousy, is a point which authors are not agreed 
upon. 

Cybele's name he howls around, etc.] I have adopted 
Uie accentuation which Elias Andreas gives to Cybele: 
In montibus Cybelen 
Magno sonans boatu. 

Oft too by Claros' hallow'd spring, etc.] This fountain 
was in a grove, consecrated to Apollo, and situated between 
Colophon and Lebedos, in Ionia. The god had an oracle 
there. Scaliger has thus alluded to it in his Anacreontica : 

Semel ut concitus cestro, 

Veluti qui Clarias aquas 

Ebibere loquaces, 

Q,uo plus canunt, plura volunt. 

While waves of perfume, etc.] Spaletti has mistaken the 
import of xop£<r6s»s, as applied to the poet's mistress: "Mea 
fatigatus arnica." He interprets it in a sense which must 
want either delicacy or gallantry. 
Ami what did I unthinking do ? 

/ took to arms, undaunted too.] Longepierre has quoted 
an epigram from the Anthologia, in which the poet assumes 
Reason as the armour against Love. 

£l7rKi<r pat -D-po; ipmrot Trspi o-repvoitri Xoyio-juav, 

O'jiTs y.i f»xt)(T£t, ftovog eu>v %rpog ev«. 
©v»to;; 8' xSxvxtw <rvvsXtv<rof*xL- qv Ss (SotjSotr 
B«x%ov e%1, T 1 povof •crpoj Sv' ty-ui Svvxfi»l, 
With Reason I cover my breast as a shield, 
And fearlessly meet little Love in the field ; 
Thus fighting his godship, I'll ne'er be dismay'd; 
But if Bacchus should ever advance to his aid, 
Alas ! then, unable to combat the two, 
Unfortunate warrior ! what should I do 7 
This idea of the irresistibility of Cupid and Bacchus 
united, is delicately expressed in an Italian poem, which is 
eo very Anacreontic, that I may be pardoned for introducing 
it. Indeed, it is an imitation of our poet's sixth ode. 
2H 



Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear 
And, like Pelides, smiled at fear. 
Then (hear it, all you Powers above !) 
I fought with Love ! I fought with Love! 
And now his arrows all were shed — 
And I had just in terror fled— 
When, heaving an indignant sigh, 
To see me thus unwounded fly, 
And having now no other dart, 
He glanced himself into my heart ! 
My heart — alas the luckless day ! 
Received the god, and died away. 
Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield . 
Thy lord at length was forced to yield. 
Vain, vain is every outward care, 
My foe's within, and triumphs there 



ODE XIV. 1 

Count me, on the summer trees, 
Every leaf that courts the breeze 



Lavossi Amove in quel vicino flume 
Ove giuro (Pastor) che bevend 'io 
Bevei le fiamine, anzi 1' istesso Dio, 
C' hor con 1' humide piume 
Lascivetto mi scherza al cor intorno. 
Ma che savei s' io lo bevessi un giomo 
Bacco, nel tuo liquore? 
Savei, piu che non sono ebro d'Amora 

The urchin of the bow and quiver 
Was bathing in a neighbouring river 
Where, as I drank on yester-eve 
(Shepherd-youth ! the tale believe,) 
'T was not a cooling crystal draught, 
'Twas liquid flame I madly quaff'dj 
For Love was in the rippling tide, 
I fell him to my bosom glide ; 
And now the wily wanton minion 
Plays o'er my heart with restless pinion 
This was a day of fatal star, 
But were it not more fatal far, 
If, Bacchus, in thy cup of fire, 
I found this fluttering, young desire? 
Then, then indeed my soul should prove 
Much more than ever, drunk with love! 

And, having now no other dart, * 

He glanced himself into my heart!] Dryden has paro- 
died this thought in the following extravagant lines: 

I 'm all o'er Love ; 

Nay, I am Love ; Love shot, and shot so fast, 
He shot himself into my breast at last. 
1 The poet, in this catalogue of his mistresses, means 
nothing more than, by a lively hyperbole, to tell us that his 
heart, unfettered by any one object, was warm with devo* 
tion towards the sex in general. Cowley is indebted to this 
ode for the hint of his ballad, called "The Chronicle;" and 
the learned Monsieur Menage has imitated it in a Greek 
Anacreontic, which has so much ease and spirit, that the 
reader may not be displeased at seeing it nere : 

ITpoj Biwvce. 
Ei x\cre-x>v rx CpvWx, 
Aei/zuji/iouj T6 a-o»a;, 
JE« vuxtoj xirrpx tzxv-tx^ 
Tlxpxy.T n>vg ts -]/xfi[/.o\jg. 

Axog T« XVflXTwSvi) 

&vvq, Bimv, xpid/unv, 
Kai -vcug eftovg spwrxg 
AuV4, B<0)1/, xpiSfisiv. 
KopyV)Tvvxtx.x t Xupxi', 
X,ui-<p>jv, Msa-qv, Mi^o-rjji/, 

AlVKV\V T£ XXL MlKXtVXVy 

OpuxSxg^ Kx7rxixg y 
HvjpyjiSxg t£ ■zzxtrxg 
O <rog <£iKog <p X^os. 

TIXVTWV JC0pC? f/SJ £0-T«V. 

AuTtjf vewv Ep-.uT«>i/, 



242 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Count me on the foamy deep, 
Every wave that sinks to sleep ; 
Then, when you .-have numbered these 
Billowy tides and leafy trees, 
Count me all the flames I prove, 
All the gentle nymphs I love. 
First, of pure Athenian maids, 
Sporting in their olive shades, 
You may reckon just a score ; 
Nay, I '11 grant you fifteen more. 
In the sweet Corinthian grove, 
Where the glowing wantons rove, 
Chains of beauties may be found, 
Chains by which my heart is bound ; 
There indeed are girls divine, 
Dangerous to a soul like mine ; 



As<r:ro«vav A^poS'jTJii/, 
Xpuo-*)!/, x*A.>jv, yKvx.emcv t 

Ae» fiovyiv <piK*i<rxt 
Eywys /isj 5vvxtf*y,v. 
Tell the foliage of the woods, 
Tell the billows of the floods, 
Number midnight's starry store, 
And the sands that crowd the shore; 
Then, my Bion, thou may'st count 
Of my loves the vast amount! 
I 've been loving, all my days, 
Many nymphs, in many ways, 
Virgin, widow, maid, and wife— 
I've been doting all my life. 
Naids, Nereids, nymphs of fountains, 
Goddesses of groves and mountains, 
Fair and sable, great and small, 
Yes — I swear I 've loved them all ! 
Every passion soon was over, 
I was but the moment's lover; 
Oh ! 1 'm such a roving elf, 
That the Queen of Love herself, 
Though she practised all her wiles, 
Rosy blushes, golden smile3, 
All her beauty's proud endeavour 
Could not chain my heart for ever ! 
Count me, on the summer trees, 

Every leaf, etc.] This figure is called, by the rhetori- 
cians, xSwxrov, and is very frequently made use of in 
poetry. The amatory writers have exhausted a world of 
iniagery by it, to express the infinity of kisses which they 
require from the lips of their mistresses: in this Catullus led 
the way: 

— quam s ; dera multa, cum tacet nox, 

Furtivos hominum vident amores; 

Tarn te basia multa basiare, 

Vesano satis, et super Catullo est: 

Quae nee pernumerare curiosi 

Possint, nee mala fascinare lingua. Carm. 7. 

As many stellar eyes of light, 

As through the silent waste of night, 

Gazing upon this world of shade, 

Witness some secret youth and maid, 

Who, fair as thou, and fond as I, 

In stolen joys enamour'd lie ! 

So many kisses, ere I slumber, 

Upon those dew-brighl lips I '11 number; 

So many vermil, honey'd kisses, 

Envy can never count our blisses. 

No tongue shall tell the sum but mine; 

No lips shall fascinate but thine! 
In the sweet Corinthian grove, 

Where the glowing wantons rove, etc.] Corinth was 
▼cry famous for the beauty and number of its courtezans. 
Venus was the deity principally worshipped by the people, 
and prostitution in her temple was a meritorious act of reli- 
gion. Conformable to this was their constant and solemn 
prayer, that the gods would increase the number of their 
courtezans. We may perceive from the application of the 
werb xopivdixfyiv, in Aristophnnes, that the wantonness of 
the Corinthians became proverbial. 
There indeed are girls divine, 

Dangerous to a soul like mine !] " With justice has the 
poet attributed beauty to the women of Greece." — Degen. , 



Many bloom in Lesbos' isle ; 
Many in Ionia smile ; 
Rhodes a pretty swarm can boast ; 
Caria too contains a host. 
Sum these all — of brown and fair, 
You may count two thousand there ! 
What, you jaze ! I pray you, peace ! 
More I '11 find before I cease. 
Have I told you all my flames 
'Mong the amorous Syrian dames ? 
Have I numbered every one 
Glowing under Egypt's sun ? 
Or the nymphs who, blushing sweet, 
Decks the shrine of love in Crete ; 
Where the god, with festal play, 
Holds eternal holiday ? 
Still in clusters, still remain 
Gades' warm desiring train ; 
Still there lies a myriad more 
On the sable India's shore ; 
These, and many far removed, 
All are loving — all are loved ! 



ODE XV. 

1 Tell me why, my sweetest dove, 
Thus your humid pinions move, 
Shedding through air, in showers, 
Essence of the balmiest flowers ? 
Tell me whither, whence you rove, 
Tell me all, my sweetest dove ? 



Monsieur de Pauw, the author of Dissertations upon th« 
Greeks, is of a different opinion; he thinks that, by a capri- 
cious partiality of nature, the other sex had all the beauty, 
and accounts upon this supposition for a very singular de- 
pravation of instinct among them. 

Gades 1 warm desiring train.] The Gaditanian girls 
were like the Baladieres of India, whose dances are thus 
described by a French author : " Les danses sont presque 
toutes des pantomimes d'amour; le plan, le dessin, les atti 
tudes, les mesures, les sons, et les cadences de ces ballets, 
tout respire cette passion et en exprime les voluptes et lea 
fureurs." Histoire du Commerce des Europ. dans les deux 
Indes. — Raynal. 

The music of the Gaditanian females had all the volup- 
tuous character of their dancing, as appears from Martial: 
Cantica qui Nili, qui Gaditana susurrat. 

Lib. iii. epig. 63. 

Lodovico Ariosto had this ode of our bard in his mind, 
when he wrote his poem " De diversis amoribus." See the 
Anthologia Italorum. 

1 The dove of Anacreon, bearing a letter from the poet 
to his mistress, is met by a stranger, with whom this dia-' 
logue is imagined. 

The ancients made use of letter-carrying pigeons, when 
they went any distance from home, as the most certain 
means of conveying intelligence back. That tender domes- 
tic attachment, which attracts this delicate little bird through 
every danger and difficulty, till it settles in its native nest, 
affords to the elegant author of " The Pleasures of Memory" 
a fine and interesting exemplification of his subject. 
Led by what chart, transports the timid dove 
The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love? 
See the poem. Daniel Heinsius has a similar sentiment, 
speaking of Dousa, who adopted this method at the siege 
of Leyden : 

Q.uo patriae non tendit amor ? Mandata refcrre 
Postquam hominem nequiit mittere, misit avem. 

Fuller tells us that, at the siege of Jerusalem, the Chris- 
tians intercepted a letter tied to the legs of a dove, in which 
the Persian Emperor promised assistance to the besieged 
See Fuller's Holy War, cap. 24, book i. 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



243 



Curious stranger! I belong 
To the bard of Teian song ; 
With his mandate now I fly 
To the nymph of azure eye ; 
Ah ! that eye has madden'd many, 
But the poet more than any ! 
Venus, for a hymn of love 
Warbled in her votive grove 
('T was, in sooth, a gentle lay,) 
Gave me to the bard away. 
See me now, his faithful minion, 
Thus, with softly-gliding pinion, 
To his lovely girl I bear 
Songs of passion through the air. 
Oft he blandly whispers me, 
" Soon, my bird, I'll set you free." 
But in vain he '11 bid me fly, 
I shall serve him till I die. 
Never could my plumes sustain 
Ruffling winds and chilling rain, 
O'er the plains, or in the dell, 
On the mountain's savage swell ; 
Seeking in the desert wood 
Gloomy shelter, rustic food. 
Now I lead a life of ease, 
Far from such retreats as these ; 
From Anacreon's hand I eat 
Food delicious, viands sweet ; 
Flutter o'er his goblet's brim, 
Sip the foamy wine with him. 
Then I dance and wanton round 
To the lyre's beguiling sound ; 
Or with gently-fanning wings 
Shade the minstrel while he sings : 
On his harp then sink in slumbers, 
Dreaming still of dulcet numbers! 
This is all — away — away — 
You have made me waste the day. 
How I've chatter'd ! prating crow 
Never yet did chatter so. 



ODE XVI.' 

Thou, whose soft and rosy hues 
Mimic, form and soul infuse ; 



Jlh .' that eye has madden'd many, etc.] For Tupxwoi/, in 
jlio original, Zeune and Schneider conjecture that we should 
read Tupxi'vcu, in allusion to the strong influence which this 
object of his love held over the mind of Polycrates. — See 
Vegen. 

Vivas, for a hymn of lone 

Warbled in her votive prove, etc.] " This passage is in- 
valuable, and I do not think that any thing so beautiful or 
so delicate has ever been said. What an idea does it give 
of the poetry of the man from whom Venus herself, the 
mother of tlie Graces and the Pleasures, purchases a little 
hymn with one of her favourite doves!" — J^ongepierre. 

De Pauw objects to the authenticity of this ode, because 
it makes Anacreon his own panegyrist; but poets have a 
license for praising themselves, which, with some indeed, 
maybe considered as comprised under their general privilege 
of fiction. 

1 This ode and the next may be called companion-pic- 
tures ; they are highly finished, and give us an excellent idea 
*f the taste of the ancients in beauty. Franciscus Junius 
quotes them in his third book, " De Pictura Veterum." 

This ocie has been imitated by Ronsard, Giuliano,Goselini, 
etc. etc. Scaliger alludes to it thus in his Anacreontica : 



Best of painters ! come, portray 
The lovely maid that 's far away. 
Far away, my soul ! thou art, 
But I 've thy beauties all by heart. 
Paint her jetty ringlets straying, 
Silky twine in tendrils playing ; 
And, if painting hath the skill 
To make the spicy balm distil, 
Let every little lock exhale 
A sigh of perfume on the gale. 
Where her tresses' curly flow 
Darkles o'er the brow of snow, 
Let her forehead beam to light, 
Burnish'd as the ivory bright. 
Let her eyebrows sweetly rise 
In jetty arches o'er her eyes, 
Gently in a crescent gliding, 
Just commingling, just dividing. 
But hast thou any sparkles warm, 
The lightning of her eyes to form? 
Let them effuse the azure ray 
With which Minerva's glances play, 



Olim lepore bianco, 
Litis versibus 
Candidus Anacn on 
Quam pingeret Amicus 
Descripsit Veniiem suam. 

The Teian bard, of former days, 
Attuned his sweet descriptive lays, 
And taught the painter's hand to trace 
His fair beloved's every grace ! 

In the dialogue of Caspar Barlams, entitled " An formosa sit 
ducenda," the reader will find many curious ideas and de- 
scriptions of beauty. 

Thou, whose soft and rosy hues 

Mimic form and soul infuse.] I have followed the read- 
ing of the Vatican MS. poStig. Painting is called " the rosy 
art," either in reference to colouring, or as an indefinite 
epithet of excellence, from the association of beauty with 
that flower. Salvini has adopted this reading in his literal 
translation : 

Delia rosea arte signore. 

The lovely maid that 's far away.] If the portrait of 
this beauty be not merely ideal, the omission of her name is 
much to be regretted. Meleager, in an epigram on Anacreon, 
mentions " the golden Eurypyle" as his mistress: 

BsSwjxujj %p\i<ra\v xupxs £5r' BvpV7TU\>iV. 

Paint her jetty ringlets straying, 

Silky twine in tendrils playing ;] The ancients have 
been very enthusiastic in their praises of hair. Apuleius, in 
the second book of his Milesiacs, says, that Venus herself, 
if she were bald, though surrounded by the Graces and the 
Loves, could not be pleasing even to her husband Vulcan. 

Stesichorusgave the epithet xxWiffXm*,«o; to the Graces, 
and Simonides bestowed the same upon the Muses. See 
Hadrian Junius' s Dissertation upon Hair. 

To this passage of our poet, Selden alluded in a ncte on 
the Polyolbion of Drayton, song the second ; where, ob- 
serving that the epithet " black-haired" was given by some 
of the ancients to the goddess Isis, he says, " Nor will I 
swear, but that Anacreon (a man very judicious in the pro- 
oking motives of wanton love,) intending to bestow on his 
sweet mistress that one of the titles of woman's special 
ornament, well-haired (xjUiiD.ox^o,-,) thought of this 
when he gave his painter direction to make her black- 
haired." 

And, if painting hath the skill 

To make the spicy balm distil, etc.] Thus Philostratus, 
speaking of a picture: £7rxivu xm tow ivfyoo-ov rwv poSwv, 
pilfti yeypxoSxt xvrx ftirx t*is 007**1?. "I admire 
the dewiness of these roses, and could say that their verv 
smell was painted." 



MOORE'S WORKS 



And give them all that liquid fire 
That Venus' languid eyes respire 
O'er her nose and cheek be shed 
Hushing white and mellow red ; 
Gradual tints, as when there glows 
In snowy milk the bashful rose." 
Then her lip, so rich in blisses ' 
Sweet petitioner for kisses ! 
Pouting nest of bland persuasion, 
Ripely suing Love's invasion. 
Then beneath the velvet chin, 
Whose dimple shades a Love within, 
Mould her neck with grace descending, 
Li a heaven of beauty ending ; 
While airy charms, above, below, 
Sport and flutter on its snow. 
Now let a floating, lucid veil 
Shadow her limbs, but not conceal : 



Jind give them all that liquid fire 

That Venus' 1 languid eyes respire.] Maichetti explains 
tbus the vypov of the original: 

Dipingili umidetti 
Tremuli e lascivetti, 
Q.uai gli ha Ciprigna 1' alma Dead' Amore. 
Tasso has painted in the same manner the eyes of Armida, 
as La Fosse remarks : 

Qual raggio in onda le scintilla un riso 
Negli umidi occhi tremulo e lascivo. 
Within her humid, melting eyes 
A brilliant ray of laughter lies, 
Soft as the broken solar beam 
That trembles in the azure stream 
The mingled expression of dignity and tenderness, which 
Anacreon requires the painter to infuse into the eyes of his 
mistress, is more amply described in the subsequent ode. 
Both descriptions are so exquisitely touched, that the artist 
must have been great indeed, if he did not yield iu painting 
to the poet : 

Gradual lints, as when there glows 
In snowy milk' the bashful rose.] Thus Propertius, eleg. 
3. lib. ii. 

Utque ross puro lacte natant folia. 
And Davenant, in a little poem called "The Mistress,'* 
Catch, as it falls, the Scythian snow, 
Bring blushing roses steep'd in milk. 
Thus, too, Taygetus : 

Qua? lac atque rosas vincis candore rubenti. 
These last words may perhaps defend the " flushing while" 
of tht translation. 

Then her lip, so rich in blisses I 

Sweet petitioner for kisses!] The "lip, provoking 
kisses," in the original, is a strong and beautiful expression. 
AcnillesTatius speaks of%s»M /tt»x.Sax» irpss T * <?»M,««Ta, 
' Lips soft and delicate for kissing." A grave old commen- 
tator, Dionysius Lambinus, in his notes upon Lucretius, tells 
us, with all'the authority of experience, that girls who have 
large lips kiss infinitely sweeter than others! " Suavius 
viros osculantur puella* labiosas, quam quae sunt brevibus 
labris." And iEneas Sylvius, in his tedious uninteresting 
story of the adulterous loves of Euryalus and Lucretia, 
where he particularizes the beauties of the heroine (in a 
very false and laboured style of latinity,) describes her lips 
as exquisitely adapted for" biting: " Os parvum decensque, 
labia corallini coloris ad morsum aptissima." Epist. 114. 
lib. i. 

Then beneath the velvet chin, 

Whose dimple shades a Love within, etc.] Madame 
Dacier has quoted here two pretty lines of Varro : 
Sigilla in mento impressa Amorisdigitulo 
Vestigio demonstrant mollitudinem. 
In her chin is a delicate dimple, 

By the finger of Cupid imprest; 
There Softness, bewitchingly simple, 
Has chosen her innocent nest. 
JVW let a floating, lucid veil 
Shadow her limbs, but not conceal, etc] This delicate 



A charm may peep, a hue may beam, 
And leave the rest to Fancy's dream. 
Enough— 't is she ! 't is all I seek ; 
It glows, it lives, '+ «oon will sneak • 



ODE XVII. 1 

And now, with all thy pencil's truth, 
• Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth ! 
Let his hair, in lapses bright, 
Fall like streaming rays of light ; 
And there the raven's dye confuse 
With the yellow sunbeam's hues. 
Let not the braid, with artful twine, 
The flowing of his locks confine ; 
But loosen every golden ring, 
To float upon the breeze's wing. 
Beneath the front of polish'd glow, 
Front as fair as mountain snow, 
And guileless as the dews of dawn, 
Let the majestic brows be drawn, 
Of ebon dyes, enrich'd by gold, 
Such as the scaly snakes unfold. 
Mingle in his jetty glances 
Power that awes, and love that trances ; 



art of description, which leaves imagination to complete the 
picture, has been seldom adopted in the imitations of this 
beautiful poem. Ronsard is exceptionably minute ; and 
Politianus, in his charming portrait of a girl, full of rich and 
exquisite diction, has lifted the veil rather too much. The 
" questo che tu m'intendi" should be always left to fancy. 

1 The reader who wishes to acquire an accurate idea of 
the judgment of the ancients in beauty, will be indulged by 
consulting Junius de Pictura Veterum, ninth chapter, third 
book, where he will find a very curious selection of descrip- 
tions and epithets of personal perfections ; he compares this 
ode with a description of Theodoric, king of the Goths, in 
the second epistle, first book of Sidonius Apollinaiis. 
Let his hair, in lapses bright, 

Fall like streaming rays of light; etc.] He here de- 
scribes the sunny hair, the "flava coma," which the ancients 
so much admired. The Romans gave this colour artificially 
to their hair. See Stanisl. Kobiensyck de Luxu Roman- 
orum. 

Let not. the braid, with artful twine, etc.] If the original 
here, which is particularly beautiful, can admit of any ad- 
ditional value, that value is conferred by Gray's admiration 
of it. See his Letters to West. 

Some annotators have quoted on this passage the descrip- 
tion of Photis's hair in Apuleius ; but nothing can be more 
distant from the simplicity of our poet's manner than thai 
affectation of richness which distinguishes the style of 
Apuleius, 

Front as fair as mountain-snow, 

And guileless as the dews of dawn, etc.] Torrentius, 
upon tht; words " insignem tenui fronte," in the thirty-third 
ode of the first book of Horace, is of opinion that" tenui" 
bears the meaning of xirxxov here; but he is certainly in- 
correct. 

Mingle in his jetty glances 

Power that awes, and love that trances ! etc.] Tassa 
gives a similat character to the eyes of Clorinda : 
Lampeggiar gli occhi, e folgorar gli sguardi 
Dolci ne 1' ira. 

Her eyes were glowing with a heavenly heat, 
Emaning fire, and e'en in anger sweet ! 
The poetess Veronica Cambara is more diffuse upon this 
variety of expression: 

Occhi lucenti et belli 

Come esser puo ch' in un medesmo istante 

Nascan de voi si nove forme et tante J 

Lieti, mesti, superbi, humil' altieri 

Vi mostrate in un punto, ondi di spemo 

Et di timor de empiete, etc. etc. 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



215 



Steal from Venus bland desire, 
Steal from Mars the look of fire, 
Blend them in such expression here, 
That we, by turns, may hope and fear ! 
Nov from the sunny apple seek 
The velvet down that spreads his cheek! 
And there let Beauty's rosy ray 
In flying blushes richly play ; — 
Blushes of that celestial flame 
Which lights the cheek of virgin shame. 
Then for his lips, that ripely gem — 
But let thy mind imagine them ! 
Paint, where tha ruby cell uncloses, 
Persuasion sleeping upon roses ; 
And give his lip that speaking air, 
As if a word was hovering there ! 
His neck of ivory splendour trace, 
Moulded with soft but manly grace ; 
Fair as the neck of Paphia's boy, 
Where Paphia s arms have hung in joy. 
Give him the winged Hermes' hand, 
With which he waves his snaky wand j 
Let Bacchus then the breast supply, 
And Leda's son the sinewy thigh. 
But oh ! suffuse his limbs of fire 
With all that glow of young desire 



Oh ! tell me, brightly-beaming eye, 
Whence in your little orbit lie 
So many different traits of fire, 
Expressing each a new desire? 
Now with angry scorn you darkle, 
Now with tender anguish sparkle, 
And we, who view the various mirror, 
Feel at once both hope and terror. 

Monsieur Chevreau, citing the lines of our poet, in his 
en.ique on the poems of Malherbe, produces a Latin version 
of them from a manuscript which he li#d seen, entitled 
"Joan Falconis Anacreontici Lusus." 

Persuasion sleeping upon roses.] It was worthy of the 
delicate imagination of the Greeks to deify Persuasion, and 
give her the lips for her throne. We are here reminded of 
a very interesting fragment of Anacreon, preserved by th 
scholiast upon Pindar and supposed to belong to a poem 
reflecting with some severity on Simonides, who was the 
first, we are told, that ever made a hireling of his muse. 

OuJ' sspyupEn xot' sKxf*ty$ JJetQio, 

Nor yet had fair Persuasion shone 
In silver splendours, not her own. 

Jlni give hie lip that speaking air, 

Jis if a word was hovering there!] In the original 
KxKjiv o-iaiTrq. The mistress of Petrarch "parla con silen- 
tio," which is perhaps the best method of female eloquence. 

Give him the winged Hermes 1 hand, etc.] In Shak- 
speare's Cymbeline there is a similar method of description ; 

this is his hand, 

His foot Mercurial, his martial thigh 
The brawns of Hercules. 

. We find it likewise in Hamlet. Longepierre thinks that 
the hands of Mercury are selected by Anacreon, on account 
of the graceful gestures which were supposed to character- 
ize the god of eloquence ; hut Mercury was also the patron 
of thieves, and may perhaps be praised as a light-fingered 
deity. 

But oh! suffuse his limbs of fire 

With all that glow of young desire, etc.] I have taken 
the liberty here of somewhat veiling the original. Madame 
Dacier, in her translation, has hung out lights (as Sterne 
would call it) at this passage. It is very much to be re- 
gretted, that this substitution of asterisks has been so much 
adopted in the popular interpretations of the Classics; it 
serves nut to bring whatever is exceotionable into notice, 
u claramque facem praeferre pudendis 



Which kindles when the wishful sigh 
Steals from the heart, unconscious why. 
Thy pencil, though divinely bright, 
Is envious of the eye's delight, 
Or its enamour'd touch would show 
His shoulder, fair as sunless snow, 
Which now in veiling shadow lies, 
Removed from all but Fancy's eyes. 
Now, for his feet — but, hold — forbear — 
I see a godlike portrait there ; 
So like Bathyllus ! — sure there 's none 
So like Bathyllus but the Sun ! 
Oh, let this pictured god be mine, 
And keep the boy for Samos' shrine ; 
Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be, 
Bathyllus then the deity ! 



ODE XVIII. 1 

Now the star of day is high, 
Fly, my girls, in pity fly, 
Bring me wine in brimming urns, 
Cool my lip, it burns, it burns ! 
Sunn'd by the meridian fire, 
Panting, languid, I expire ! 
Give me all those humid flowers, 
Drop them o'er my brow in showers. 
Scarce a breathing chaplet now 
Lives upon my feverish brow ; 



-But, hold — forbear — 



I see a godlike portrait there.] This is» very spirited, but 
it requires explanation. While the artist, is pursuing the 
portrait of Bathyllus, Anacreon, we must suppose, turns 
round and sees a picture of Apollo, which was intended for 
an altar at Samos ; he instantly tells the painter to cease his 
work ; that this picture will serve for Bathyllus; and that, 
when he goes to Samos, he may make an Apollo of the por- 
trait of the boy which he had begun. 

"Bathyllus (says Madame Dacier) could not be more ele- 
gantly praised, and this one passage does him more honour 
than the statue, however beautiful it might be, which Poly- 
crates raised to him." 

1 "An elegant translation o* this ode maybe found in 
Ramler's Lyr. Blumenslese, lib. v. p. 403." — Degen. 

Bring me wine in brimming urns, etc.] Orig. nxtnv 
xfiVTri. "The amystis was a method of drinking used 
among the Thracians. Thus Horace, "Threicia vincat 
amystide." Mad. Dacier, Longepierre, etc. eic. 

Parrhasius, in his twenty-sixth epistle (Thesaur. Critic 
vol. i.) explains the amystis as a draught to be exhausted 
without drawing breath, " uno haustu." A note in the 
margin of this epistle of Parrhasius says, " Politianus ves- 
tem esse putabat," but I cannot find where. 

Give me all those humid flowers, etc.] By the original 
reading of this line, the poet says, " Give me the flower of 
wine" — Date fiosculos Lyaei, as it is in the version of Elias 
Andreas ; and 

Deh porgetimi del fiore 
Di quel almo e buon liquore, 
as Regnier has it, who supports the reading. AvSo; would 
undoubtedly bear this application, which is somewhat simi- 
lar to its import in the epigram of Simonides upon Sopho- 
cles: 

E<rbE<r9s)s, yspctti Eo^oxXsej, avSog aoiSW. 

And flos, in the Latin, is frequently applied in this manner 
thus Cethegus is called by E.inius, Flos illibatus populi, 
suadaeque medulla, "The immaculate flower of the people, 
and the very marrow of persuasion," in those verses cited 
by Aulus Gellius, lib. xii. which Cicero praised, and Seneca 
thought ridiculous. 

But in the passage before us, if we admit txuvuiv, accord- 
ing to Faber's conjecture, the sense is sufficiently dear, and 
we need not have recourse to refinements. 



246 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Every dewy rose I wear 
Shtds its tears, and withers there 
But for you, my burning mind ! 
Oh ! what shelter shall I find ? 
Can the bowl, or flow'ret's dew, 
Cool the flame that scorches you ? 



ODE XIX. 

'Here recline you, gentle maid, 
Sweet is this imbowering shade ; 
Sweet the young, the modest trees, 
Ruffled by the kissing breeze ; 
Sweet the little founts that weep, 
Lulling bland the mind to sleep ; 



Every dewy rose I wear 

Sheds its tears, and withers there.] There are some 
beautiful lines, by Angeriamus, upon a garland, which I 
cannot resist quoting here: 

Ante fores madidoe sic sic pendete corolla), 

Mane orto irnponet Ca^lia vos capiti; 
At cum per niveam cervicem inrluxerit humor, 
Dicite, non roris sed pluvia ha?c lacrimal. 

By Celia's arbour all the night 

Hang, humid wreath, the lover's vow; 

And haply, at the morning light, 

My love shall twine thee round her brow. 

Then if, upon her bosom bright 

Some drops of dew shall fall from thee, 

Tell her, they are not drops of night, 
But tears of sorrow shed by me! 

In the poem of Mr. Sheridan, " Uncouth is this moss- 
Cover'd grotto of stone," there is an idea very singularly co- 
incident with this of Angerianus, in the stanza which begins, 
And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve. 

But for you my burning mind! etc.] The transition 
here is peculiarly delicate and impassioned ; but the com- 
mentators have perplexed the sentiment by a variety of 
leadings and conjectures. 

1 The description of this bower is so natural and animated, 
that we cannot help feeling a degree of coolness and fresh- 
ness while we read it. Longepierre has quoted from the first 
book of the Anthologia, the following epigram, as some- 
what resembling this ode: 

Ep%so, jt«i xstr' ifjxv »£eu -ctituv, a, to fJ.ski%pov 

II005 fi.xXciy.ovg q%si xixXifisva. £s4>upouj. 
Ht ids y.u.1 xpovvHrftx fj.iXi<nxyt<;, svSx fis\i<r$wv 
HSvv cpvifixixts V7rvov xyui xnXa/ioi;, 

Come, sit by the shadowy pine 

That covers my sylvan retreat, 
And see how the branches incline 

The breathing of Zephyr to meet. 

See the fountain, that, flowing, diffuses 

Around me a glittering spray ; 
By its brink, as the traveller muses, 

I soothe him to sieep with my lay ! 

Here recline you. gentle maid, etc.] The Vatican MS. 
reads fixSvXXov, which renders the whole poem metaphori- 
cal. Some commentator suggests the reading of fixivXXov, 
which makes a pun upon the name; a grace that Plato him- 
self has condescended to in writing of his boy Ao-r>ip. See 
the epigram of this philosopher, which I quote on the twen- 
ty-second ode. 

There is another epigram by this philosopher, preserved in 
Lacrtius, which turns upon the same word: 
Aa-Tvif) -zrptv fj.iv iXu.iJ.7ric evi {woto-iv iwoq 

NuV Si SsCVaJV, XXfiTTtig i<T7rspo$ IV 0p6t(*ivot$ t 

In life thou wert my morning-star, 

But now that death has stolen thy light, 

Alas! thou shinest dim and far, 

Like the pale beam that weeps at night. 

fu the Veneres Blyenburgica?, under the head of " allu-j 



Hark ! they whisper, as they roll, 
Calm persuasion to the soul; 
Tell me, tell me, is not this 
All a stilly scene of bliss ? 
Who, my girl, would pass it by ? 
Surely neither you nor I ! 



ODE XX. 

'One day the Muses, twined the nands 
Of baby Love, with flowery bands ; 
And to celestial Beauty gave 
The captive infant as her slave. 



siones," we find a number of such frigid conceits upon 
names, selected from the poets of the middle ages. 

Who, my girl, would pass it byl 

Surely neither you nor I!] What a finish he gives to tha 
picture by the simple exclamation of the original ! In these 
delicate turns he is inimitable; and yet, hear what a French 
translator says on the passage: "This conclusion appeared 
to me too trifling after such a description, and I thought pro- 
per to add somewhat to the strength of the original." 

1 By this allegory of the Muses making Cupid the pri- 
soner of Beauty, Anacreon seems to insinuate the softening 
influence which a cultivation of poetry has over the mind, 
in making it peculiarly susceptible to the impressions of 
beauty. 

Though in the following epigram, by the philosophei 
Plato, which is found in the third book of Diogenes Lacr- 
tius, the muses are made^to disavow all the influence of 
Love : 



A Ku?rpi; Miuo-^(<r«, > 

Tifixr' sj tci/ Ep-jjTa 

Ai Moiitmi ■utotj Kun-f 

UfiiV OU KT^TXI T( 



opxtrix rxv A<ppo$'fr»v 

vy.fj.iv sqs?rXic-ofj.xi. 

IV. ApSJ TX 0-T'jJ/J.VXX TXVTC 

uro to zjxtSxptov. 



" Yield to my gentle power, Parnassian maids ;" 
Thus to the Muses spoke the Queen of Charms — 

" Or Love shall flutter in your classic shades, 
And make your grove the camp of Paphian arms"* 

"No," said the virgins of the tuneful bower, 
" We scorn thine own and all thy urchin's art; 

Though Mars has trembled at the infant's power, 
His shaft is pointless o'er a Muse's heart !" 

There is a sonnet by Benedetto Guidi, the thought o. 
which was suggested by this ode. 

Scherzava dentro all' auree chiome Amore 

Dell' alma donna dulla vita mia: 
E tanta era il piacer ch' ei ne sentia, 

Che non sapea, ne volea uscirne fore. 

Quando ecco ivi annodar si sente il core, 
Si, che per forza aneor con vein che siia: 

Tai lacci alta peltate orditi avia 

Del crespo crin ; per farsi eterno onore 

Onde offre infin tlal ciel dagna mercede, 
A chi sciogiie il figliuol la bella dea 
Da tanti nodi, in ch' ella stretto il vede. 

Ma ei vinto a due occhi 1' arme cede: 
Ett' affatichi indarno, Citerea: 
Che s' altri '1 sciogiie, egli a legar si riedo 

Love, wandering through the golden maze 

Of my beloved's hair, 
Traced every lock with fond delays, 

And, doting, linger'd there. 
And soon he found 'twere vain to fly, 

His heart was close confined ; 



And every curlet was a tie, 
A chain by Beauty twined. 



t 



Now Venus seeks her boy's release, 

With ransom from above: 
But, Venus ! let thy efforts cease, 

For Love 's the slave of love. 
And, should we loose his golden chain 
The prisoner would return again 1 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



Sfc 



His mother comes with many a toy, 
To ransom her beloved boy ; 
His mother sues, but all in vain ! 
He ne'er will leave his chains again. 
Nay, should they take his chains away, 
The little captive still would stay. 
" If this," he cries, " a bondage be, 
Who could wish for liberty?" 



ODE XXI. 1 

Observe when mother earth is dry, 
She drinks the droppings of the sky ; 



And then the dewy cordial gi^ea 
To every thirsty plant that lives. 
The vapours, which at evening weep, 
Are beverage to the swelling deep ; 
And when the rosy sun appears, 
He drinks the ocean's misty tears. 
The moon, too, quaffs her paly stream 
Of lustre from the solar beam. 
Then, hence, with all your sober thinking! 
Since Nature's holy law is drinking ; 
I'll make the laws of Nature mine, 
And pledge the universe in wine ! 



His mother comes, toith many a toy, 
To ransom her beloved boy, etc.] Venus thus proclaims 
the reward for her fugitive child in the first idyl of Mosclnus : 
O juxvutx; yspag £ 2 J 'i 
Mt<r5og to», to q?«Xa,u* to KujrpJcVo?, vjv £' uytcy^g viv, 
Ou yupvov to (ptXaux, tu £' oo £svs, XM« -crXeov ££s«J. 

On him, who the haunts of my Cupid can show, 

A kiss of the tenderest stamp I '11 bestow ; 

But he, who can bring me the wanderer here, 

Shall have something more rapturous, something more 
dear. 
This " something more" is the quidquid post oscula dulce 
ofSecundus. 

After this ode, there follow in the Vatican MS. these ex- 
traordinary lines : 

HSv/asXyis Avxxpsaiv 
Htvui^ng ^£ Xx7r$u> 
TiivSu.pix.ov TO Si U01 fiiXOf 
Xvy/.spx.cru.t t«s syxsoi 

Tx TplX, T*UT* //-0» SoX.it 

Kxt Aiovucro; sktixS-mv 
K*< n*?i>l -sr:*pss%poo S 
Kxi avrog Epws xav tTTisiv. 

These line3, which appear to me to have as little sense 
as metre, are most probably the interpolation of the tran- 
scriber. 

1 The commentators who have endeavoured to throw the 
chains of precision over the spirit of this beautiful trifle, re- 
quire too much from Anacreontic philosophy. Monsieur 
Gail very wisely thinks that the poet uses the epithet us- 
Kxivy, because black earth absorbs moisture more quickly 
than any other; and accordingly he indulges us with an ex- 
perimental disquisition on the subject. See Gail's notes. 

One of the Capilupi has imitated this ode, in an epitaph on 
a drunkard. 

Dum vixi sine fine bibi, sic imbrifer arcus, 

Sic tellus pluvias sole perusta bibit. 
Sic bibit assidue tomes et flumina Pontus, 

Sic semper sitiens Sol maris haurit aquas. 
Ne te ig-itur jactes plus me, Silene, bibisse ; 

Et mihi da victas tu quoque, Bacche, manus. 

Hippolytus Capilupus. 

While life was mine, the little hour 

In drinking still unvaried flew; 
I drank as earth imbibes the shower, 

Or as the rainbow drinks the dew ; 

As ocean quaffs the rivers up, 

Or flushin? sun inhales the sea; 
Silent's trembled at my cup, 

And Bacchus was outdone by me! 

I cannot omit citing these remarkable lines of Shakspeare, 
where the thoughts of the ode before us are preserved with 
such striking similitude : 

TIMON, ACT IV. 

I'll example you with thievery. 
The snn 's a thief, and with his great attraction 
Bobs the vast sea. The moan 's an arrant thief, 
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun. 
The sea's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves 
The mounds into salt tears. The earth 's a thief, 
That feeds, and breeds by a composture stolen 
From general excrements. 



ODE XXII. 1 

The Phrygian rock, that braves the storm, 
Was once a weeping matron's form ; 
And Progne, hapless, frantic maid, 
Is now a swallow in the shade. 



1 Ogilvie, in his Essay on the Lyric Poetry of the An- 
cients, in remarking upon the Odes of Anacreon, says, " In 
some of his pieces there is exuberance and even wildness of 
imagination; in -that particularly which is addressed to a 
young girl, where he wishes alternately to be transformed 
to a mirror, a coat, a stream, a bracelet, and a pair of shoos, 
for the different purposes which he recites ; this is meia 
sport and wantonness." 

It is the wantonness, however, of a very graceful muse; 
ludit amabiliter. The compliment of this ode is exquisitely 
delicate, and so singular for the period in which Anacreon 
lived, when the scale of love had not yet been graduated into 
all its little progressive refinements, that if we were inclined 
to question the authenticity of the poem, we should find a 
much more plausible argument in the features of modern 
gallantry which it bears, than in any of those fastidious con 
jectures upon which some commentators have presumed so 
far. Degen thinks it spurious, and De Puuw pronounces it 
to be miserable. Longepierre and Barnes refer us to several 
imitations of this ode, from which I shall only select an epi- 
gram of Dionysius: 

Ei5' tx.vsfj.og ysva,uviv, 0"u Ss ye o—rn %ouo-x -3-ssp' auy»f, 
yixt^is. yv/nvwo-xig^ xz-i us -a-vsovru, *.»Soij. 

EiSe poSov ysvouviv vtrOTropZvpov, o£p=s ps %sp<riv 
Apct/xsvq, xOfjt.io-a.ig o-tsSso-i y^iovsotg. 

EiSs xp.voi' ysvz/^v \sv/.oy_psov,ocpx- us %sptrtv 
Apx.y.sv/i^ {tx-X-hov o->)S %poriy t g xopto-vig. 

I wish I could like zephyr steal 

To wanton o'er thy mazy vest; 
And thou wonldst ope thy bosom veil, 

And take me panting to thy breast ! 

T wish I might a rose-bud grow, 

And thou wonldst cull me from the bower, 

And place me on that brea«t of snow, 
Where I should bloom, a wintry flower ! 

I wish I were the lily's leaf, 

To fade upon that bosom warm; 
There I should wither, pale and brief 

The trophy of thy fairer form ! 

Allow me to add, that Plato has expressed as fanciful a 
wish in a distich preserved by Laertius: 



Ao-Tsp*j s«<rs59psi?, ao-rup suog. b 
Ovpx-vog. uig -sroAAoij ouuxa-iv 

TO STELLA. 



is ysvoiuyv 

1J OS $XS7Tw' 



Why dost thou gaze upon the sky? 

Oh ! that I were that spangled sphere, 
And every star should be an eye 

To wonder on thy beauties here ! 

Apuleius quotes this epigram of the divine philosopher, to 
justify himself for his verses on Critias and Charinus. S©8 
his Apology, where he also adduces the example of Ana- 
creon ; "Fecere tamen et alii talia, et si vos ignoratis, apml 
Grascos Teius quidam," etc. etc. 



MOORE'S WORKS 



Oh ! that a mirror's form were mine, 
To sparkle with that smile divine ; 
And, like my heart, I then should be 
Reflecting thee, and only thee ! 
Or were I, love, the robe which flows 
O'er every charm that secret glows, 
In many a lucid fold to swim, 
And cling and grow to every limb ! 
Oh ! could I, as the streamlet's wave, 
Thy warmly-mellowing beauties lave, 
Or float as perfume on thine hair, 
And breathe my soul in fragrance there \ 
I wish I were the zone that lies 
Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs ! 
Or like those envious pearls that show 
So faintly round that neck of snow ; 
Yes, I would be a happy gem, 
Like them to hang, to fade like them. 
What more would thy Anacreon be ? 
Oh ! any thing that touches thee. 
Nay, sandals for those airy feet — 
Thus to be press'd by thee, were sweet ! 



ODE XXIII. 1 

I often wish this languid lyre, 
This warbler of my soul's desire, 



I wish I were the zone that lies 

Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs !] This t»ii/«)) 
was a riband, or band, called by the Romans fascia and 
strophium, which the women wore for the purpose of rfi 
straining the exuberance of the bosom. Vide Polluc. Ono- 
mast. Thus Martial: 

Fascia crescontes domina? compesce papillas. 
The women of Greece not only wore this zone, but con- 
demned themselves to fasting, and made use of certain 
drugs and powders for the same purpose. To these expe- 
dients they were compelled, in consequence of their inele- 
gant fashion of compressing the waist into a very narrow 
compass, which necessarily caused an excessive tumidity 
in the bosom. See Dioscorides, lib. v. 
JVay, sandals for those airy feet — 

Thus to be preps' 1 d by thee were sweet!'] The sophist 
Philostratus, in one of his love-letters, has borrowed this 
thought: ui aSsTOt -moSiq. as xaAAoj ikivdipog. us Tpicrtw 
Sxipuiv iya x.341 jwazaipio; sxv 7r»T-/iariTs pe. M Oh lovely 
feet! oh excellent beauty! oh! thrice happy and blessed 
should I be, if you would but tread on me!" In Shakspeare, 
Romeo desires to be a glove : 

Oh ! that I were a glove upon that hand, 

That I might kiss that cheek ! 
And, in his Passionate Pilgrim, we meet with an idea some- 
what like that of the thirteenth line : 

He, spying her, bounced in, where as he stood, 

" O Jove !" quoth she, " why was not I a flood!" 

In Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, that whimsical far- 
rago of " all such reading as was never read," there is a 
very old translation of this ode, before 1632. " Englished 
by Mr. B. Holiday, in his Technog. act 1, scene 7." 

1 This ode is first j n the series of all the editions, and is 
thought to be peculiarly designed as an introduction to the 
rest; it however characterizes the genius of the Teian but 
very inadequately, as wine, the burden of his lays, is not 
even mentioned in it. 

cum multo Venerem confundere mero 

Preceprt Lyrici Teia Musa senis. Ovid. 

The twenty-sixth Ode, o-v ubv Xsysi? t* 0sAc, might, with 
as much propriety, be trie harbinger of his songs. 

Bion has expressed the sentiments of the ode before us 
with much simplicitv in his fourth idyl. I have given it 
rather paraphraslically ; it has been so frequently translated, 
that I could not otherwise avoid triteness and repetition. 



Could raise the breath of song sublime 
To men of fame, in former time. 
But when the soaring theme I try, 
Along the chords my numbers die, 
And whisper, with dissolving tone, 
" Our sighs are given to Love alone !" 
Indignant at the feeble lay, 
I tore the panting chords away, 
Attuned them to a nobler swell, 
And struck again the breathing shell ; 
In all the glow of epic fire, 
To Hercules I wake the lyre ! 
But still its fainting sighs repeat, 
" The tale of Love alone is sweet !" 
Then fare thee well, seductive dream, 
That mad'st me follow Glory's theme ; 
For thou, my lyre, and thou, my heart, 
Shall never more in spirit part ; 
And thou the flame shalt feel as well 
As thou the flame shalt sweetly tell ! 



ODE XXIV.' 

To all that breathe the airs of heaven, 
Some boon of strength has nature given. 
When the majestic bull was born, 
She fenced his brow with wreathed horn. 
She arm'd the courser's foot of air, 
And wing'd with speed the panting hare. 
She gave the lion fangs of terror, 
And, on the ocean's crystal mirror, 
Taught the unnumber'd scaly throng 
To trace their liquid path along ; 
While for the umbrage of the grove, 
She plumed the warbling world of love. 



In all the glow of epic fire, 

To Hercules I wake the lyre!] Madame Dacier gene- 
rally translates Xupsj into a lute, which I believe is rather in- 
accurate. "D'expliquer la lyre des anciens (says Monsieur 
Sorel) par un luth, e'est ignorer la difference qu'il y a entre 
ces deux instrumens de musique." Bibliotheque Francaise. 

But still its fainting sighs repeat, 

" The tale of Love alone is sweet!"] The word «m. 
(puivn, in the original, may imply that kind of musical dia- 
logue practised by the ancients, in which the lyre was made 
to respond to the questions proposed by the singer. This waa 
a method which Sappho used, as we are told by Hermo- 
genes: "ot»v t>jv Wpxv ip-uTx, HxjrQus, xxi Ot«i/ £*ut>] «7T0. 
xpJv>)Ta»." Ilipt iSswv. To[/.. Sevr. 

1 Henri Stephens has imitated the idea of this ode in the 
following lines of one of his poems : 

Provida dat cunclis Natura animantibus arma, 

Et sua fceminpum possidet arma genus, 
Ungulaque ut defendit equum, atque ut cornua taurum, 

Armata est forma fcemina pulchra sua. 

And the same thought occurs in those lines, spoken by 
Corisca in Pastor Fido : 

Cosi noi la bellezza 

Che 'e vertu nostra cosi propria, come 

La forza del leone 

E 1' ingegno de 1' huomo. 

The lion boasts his savage powers, 
And lordly man his strength of mind; 

But beauty's charm is solely ours, 
Peculiar boon, by Heaven assign'd ! 

" An elegant explication of the beauties of this ode (says 
Degen) may be found in Grimm en den Anmerkk. Vsber 
eini"e Oden des Anakr " 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



249 



To man she gave the flame refined, 
The spark of Heaven — a thinking mind ! 
And had she no surpassing treasure 
For thee, oh woman ! child of pleasure ? 
She gave thee beauty — shaft of eyes, 
That every shaft of war outflies ! 
She gave thee beauty — blush of fire, 
That bids the flames of war retire ! 
Woman ! be fair, we must adore thee ; 
Smile, and a world is weak before thee ! 



ODE XXV » 

Once in each revolving year, 
Gentle bird ! we find thee here, 
When nature wears her summer-vest, 
Thou com'st to weave thy simple nest : 
But when the chilling winter lowers, 
Again thou seek'st the genial bowers 
Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile, 
Where sunny hours of verdure smile. 
And thus thy wing of freedom roves, 
Alas ! unlike the plumed loves, 
That linger in this hapless breast, 
And never, never change their nest ! 



To man she gave the flame refined, 

The spark of Heaven — a thinking- mind!] In my first 
attempt to translate this ode, I had interpreted (ppovy/xx,, with 
Baxter and Barnes, as implying courage and military virtue ; 
Dut 1 do not think that the gallantry of' the idea suffers hy 
the import which I have now given to it. For, why need 
we consider this possession of wisdom as exclusive? and in 
truth, as the design of Anacreon is to estimate the treasure 
of beauty, above all the rest which Nature has distributed, 
it is perhaps even refining upon the delicacy of the compl? 
ment, to prefer the radiance of female charms to the cold 
illumination of wisdom and prudence ; and to think that 
women's eyes are 

the books, the academies, 

From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire. 

She gave thee beauty — shaft of eyes, 

That every shaft of war outflies .'] Thus Achilles Ta- 

tiuS : X36*.X0S O^VTEpOV TiTpajtrxe* /3eX.0VJ, X.»» SiCt TtUV 

BxKftuiv Hi Ti]v tI/vx^v xseretppst. Op$ot*.fto$ yup oSof epco- 
t.xio rpau^Ti. " Beauty wounds more swiftly than the 
arrow, and passes through the eye to the very soul; for the 
eye is the inlet to the wounds of love." 
Woman! be fair, we must adore thee; 
Smile, and a world is weak before thee!] Longepierre's 
remark here is very ingenious : " The Romans," says he, 
M were so convinced of the power of beauty, that they used 
a word implying strength in the place of the epithet beauti- 
ful. Thus Plautus, act 2, scene 2, Bacchid. 
Sed Bacchis etiam fortis tibi visa. 
•Fortis, id est formosa,' say Servius and Nonius." 
1 This is another ode addressed to the swallow. Alberti 
has imitated both in one poem, beginning 
Perch' io pianga al tuo canto 
Rondinella importuna, etc. 
Jllas! unlike the plumed loves, 
Thai linger in this hapless breast, 

And never, never change their vest!] Thus Love is 
'epresented as a bird, in an epigram cited by Longepierre 
from the Anthologia: 

Am fiOt Svvti fiiv iv avx<riv v\xoq epwrof, 

0,ufi* $s criyx iroSoij TO yX.uxu ja/.pu <f£p£i. 
Ou'5" >i vu£,ov Oeyyog EXO*/£itrsr, *kK' vtto HpiKrpaeu 

H£e 7r0v xp*Ji>) yvaic-TOg gi/£o*T» Tuuog. 
£1 zttuvoi, fi*l x.ot.t -stot' tQi7TTx<rScti //.ev spu>T6f 
OiJ^t', u7T07rTyivxt J' ou5' ocroi/ icr%u£Te. 

'Tis Love that murmurs in my breast, 
And makes me shed the secret lear; 

Nor day nor night my heart has rest, 
For night and dav his voice I hear 
2 I 



Still every year, and all the year, 
A flight of loves engender here ; 
And some their infant plumage try, 
Aud on a tender winglet fly ; 
While in the shell, impregn'd with fires, 
Cluster a thousand more desires ; 
Some from their tiny prisons peeping, 
And some in formless embryo sleeping 
My bosom, like the vernal groves, 
Resounds with little warbling loves ; 
One urchin imps the other's feather, 
Then twin-desires they wing together, 
And still as they have learn'd to soar, 
The wanton babies teem with more. 
But is there then no kindly art, 
To chase these Cupids from my heart ? 
No, no ! I fear, alas ! I fear 
They will for ever nestle here ! 



ODE XXVI. 1 

Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms, 
Or tell the tale of Theban arms ; 
With other wars my song shall burn, 
For other wounds my harp shall mourn 
'T was not the crested warrior's dart 
Which drank the current of my heart ; 
Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed, 
Have made this vanquish'd bosom bleed 
No — from an eye of liquid blue 
A host of quiver'd Cupids flew ; 
And now my heart all bleeding lies 
Beneath this army of the eyes ! 



ODE XXVII. 2 

We read the flying courser's name 
Upon his side, in marks of flame ; 



A wound within my heart I find, 

And oh ! 'tis plain where love has been ; 

For still he leaves a wound behind, 
Such as within my heart is seen. 

Oh bird of Love ! with song so drear, 

• Make not my soul the nest of pain ; 

Oh ! let the wing which brought thee here, 
In pity waft thee hence again ! 

1 " The German poet Uz has imitated this ode. Com- 
pare also Weisse Scherz. Lieder. lib. iii. der Soldat." 
Gail, Degen. 

No— from an eye of liquid blue, 

A host of quiver'd Cupids flew.] Longepierre has quoted 
part of an epigram from the seventh book of the Antholo- 
gia, which has a fancy something like this : 
Oo f*e h£kv,QzS) 
To£ot», Zy\voqi\a$ o/Leftatrt xpuTTTO^svoj. 
Archer Love ! though slily creeping, 
Well I know where thou dost lie ; 
I saw thee through the curtain peeping, 
That fringes Zenuphelia's eye. 
The poets abound with conceits on the archery of Die 
eyes, but few have turned the thought so naturally as Ana. 
creon. Ronsard gives to the eyes of his mistress " un petit 
camp d'amours." 

2 This ode forms a part of the preceding in the Vatican 
MS. but I have conformed to the editions in translating 
them separately. 

" Compare with this (says Degen) the poem of Ramler 
Wahrzeichen der Liebe, in Lyr. Blumenlese lib. iv p. 313 



250 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



And, by their turban'd brows alone, 

The warriors of the East are known. 

But in the lover's glowing eyes, 

The inlet to his bosom lies ; 

Through them we see the small faint mark, 

Where Love has dropp'd his burning spark ! 



ODE XXVIII. 1 

As in the Lemnian caves of fire, 
The mate of her who nursed desire 
Moulded the glowing steel, to form 
Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm ; 
While Venus every barb imbues 
With droppings of her honied dews ; 
And Love (alas ! the victim-heart) 
Tinges with gall the burning dart ; 
Once, to this Lemnian cave of flame, 
The crested Lord of Battles came ; 
'T was from the ranks of war he rush'd, 
His spear with many a life-drop blush'd 1 
He saw the mystic darts, and smiled 
Derision on the archer-child. 
" And dost thou smile ?" said little Love ; 
" Take this dart, and thou may'st prove, 

But in the lover's glowing- eyes, 

The inlet to his bosom lies.] " We cannot see into the 
heart," says Madame Dacier. But the lover answers — 
II cor ne gli occhi e ne la fronte ho scritto. 

Monsieur La Fosse has given the following lines, as en- 
larging on the thought of Anacreon : 

Lorsque je vois un amant, 
II cache en vain son tourment, 
A le trahir tout conspire, 
Sa langueur, son embarras, 
Tout ce qu'il peut faire ou dire, 
Me me ce qu'il ne dit pas. 

In vain the lover tries to veil 

The flame which in his bosom lies; 
His cheek's confusion tells the tale, 

We read it in his languid eyes. 
And though his words the heart betray, 
His silence speaks e'en more than they. 
1 This ode is referred to by La Mothe le Vayer, who, I 
believe, was the author of that curious little work, called 
*' Hexameron Rustique." He makes use of this, as well as 
the thirty-fifth, in his ingenious but indelicate explanation of 
Homer's Cave of the Nymphs. Journee Quatrieme. 
Jind Love (alas I the victim heart) 
Tinges with gall the burning dart.] Thus Claudian — 
Labuntur gemini fontes, hie dulcis, amarus 
Alter, et infusis corrumpit mella venenis, 
Unde Cupidineas armavit fama sagittas. 

In Cyprus' isle two rippling fountains fall, 
And one with honey flows, and one with gall; 
In these, if we may take the tale from fame, 
The son of Venus dips his darts of flame. 
See the ninety-first emblem of Alciatus, on the close con- 
nexion which subsists between sweets and bitterness. " Apes 
ideo pungunt (says Petronius) quia ubi dulce, ibi et acidum 
invenies. 

The allegorical description of Cupid's employment, in 
Horace, may vie with this before us in fancy, though not 
m delicacy : 

ferus et Cupido 

Semper ardentes acuens sagittas 
Cote cruenta. 
And Cupid sharpening all his fiery darts 
Uoon a whetstone stain'd with blood of hearts. 

Secundus has borrowed this, but has somewhat softened 
Vie image by the omission of the epithet "cruenta." 
Failor an ardentes acuebat cote sagittas. Eleg. 1. 



That though they pass the breeze's flight, 
My bolts are not so feathery light." 
He took the shaft — and, oh ! thy look, 
Sweet Venus ! when the shaft he took- - 
He sigh'd, and felt the urchin's art ; 
He sigh'd, in agony of heart, 
" It is not light — I die with pain ! 
Take — take thy arrow back again." 
" No," said the child, " it must not be, 
That little dart was made for thee !" 



ODE XXIX. 

Yes — loving is a painful thrill, 
And not to love, more painful still ; 



YETTE, 

<ps. 



Yes — loving is a painful thrill, 

Jlnd not to love more painful still, etc.] Monsieifc 
Menage, in the following Anacreontic, enforces the neces- 
sity of loving : 

Itept tou Setv $t\v\<rcn. 
IIpoj Tiirpov Aav<»j^3s Yittov, 
Miyx, Srot.\>iJt.st. riav xoiSwv 
XxptTwv 3-aA.oj Terrs, 

$<^£lu,U£V, CO £TJ6»p£. 

Qiksvjcrxv oi o-oqicrrxi. 
QiXsyitri: o-sftvos «v>jp, 

To TIX.V0V TOU XcOCf pOVJcTXOO, 
2o<f><>jS TTOCT^p X.7TX0—4S. 

T« $' a.vtv y£vo<T' EpwTOf ; 
Azoi/j] /mv ic-ri fyvxis- (a) 
HTepvyscro-iV itg OXufiirov 
X.Z.TXXllfiSVOVS avafpsi, 

BpaJsa; Ter^yf/.cvoto-i 
BsXisc-G-t tzxystpsi, 
Uvpi Xa/xTrxSog <pxsivj> 
Pu?r«pujTspou; x.xSxipit, 

ASlxu; 8s \oi$c 

A^fOUJ Epu;T*J Jj^u)!/ 
KtfXOV £V£0,t*:6» TO fiOVVOV 
lva [iY\ SuI/SCIt' £XE<V0f 
4>JA.£E*VT£ X.XI CpiKiKT^*- 

TO PETER DANIEL HUETT. 

Thou ! of tuneful bards the first, 
Thou ! by all the Graces nursed ; 
Friend ! each other friend above, 
Come with me, and learn to love. 
Loving is a simple lore, 
Graver men have learn'd before; 
Nay, the boast of former ages, 
Wisest of the wisest sages 
Sophroniscus' prudent son, 
Was by Love's illusion won. 
Oh '. how heavy life would move, 
If we knew not how to love! 
Love 's a whetstone to the mind ; 
Thus 'tis pointed, thus refined. 
When the soul dejected lies, 
Love can waft it to the skies ; 
When in languor sleeps the heart, 
Love can wake it with his dart; 
When the mind is dull and dark, 
Love can light it with his spark ! 
Come, oh ! come then, let us haste 
All the bliss of love to taste ; 
Let us love both night and day, 
Let us love our lives away ! 
And when hearts, from loving free 
(If indeed such hearts there be,) 
Frown upon our gentle flame, 
And the sweet delusion blame ; 

(a) This line is borrowed from an epigram by A\pheus 
of Mitylene. 

^ujilff MTTiv Epcuf eexoi/if. 

Menage, I think, says somewhere, that he was the first who 
produced this epigram to the world 






ODES OF A1SACREON. 



251 



But surely 'tis the worst of pain, 
To love and not be loved again ! 
Affection now has fled from earth, 
Nor fire of genius, light of birth, 
Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile 
From Beauty's cheek one favouring smile 
Gold is the woman's only theme, 
Gold is the woman's only dream. 
Oh ! never be that wretch forgiven — 
Forgive him not, indignant Heaven ! — 
Whose grovelling eyes could first adore, 
Whose heart could pant for sordid ore. 
Since that devoted thirst began, 
Man has forgot to feel for man ; 
The pulse of social life is dead, 
And all its fonder feelings fled ! 
War too has sullied Nature's charms, 
For gold provokes the world to arms ! 
And oh ! the worst of all its art, 
I feel it breaks the lover's heart ! 



ODE XXX. 1 

'Tvvas in an airy dream of night, 

I fancied that I wing'd my flight 

On pinions fleeter than the wind, 

While little Love, whose feet were twined 

(I know not why) with chains of lead, 

Pursued me as I trembling fled ; 

Pursued — and could I e'er have thought?— 

Swift as the moment I was caught! 

What does the wanton Fancy mean 

By such a strange, illusive scene ? 

I fear she whispers to my breast, 

That you, my girl, have stolen my rest ; 

That though my fancy, for a while, 

Has hung on many a woman's smile, 

I soon dissolved the passing vow, 

And ne'er was caught by Love till now ! 



ODE XXXI. 2 

Arm'd with hyacinthine rod 
(Arms enough for such a god,) 



This shall be my only curse, 
(Could I, could I wish them worse 1) 
May they ne'er the rapture prove, 
Of the smile from lips we love ! 

1 Barnes imagines from this allegory, that our poet mar- 
ried very late in life. I do not perceive any thing in the ode 
which seems to allude to matrimony, except it be the lead 
upon the feet of Cupid ; and I must confess that I agree in 
the opinion of Madame Dacier, in her life of the poet, that 
he was always too fond of pleasure to many. 

2 The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much 
greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from 
the tenderest impressions of love. Longepierre has quoted 
an ancient epigram (I do not know where he found it,) 
which has some similitude to this ode: 

Lento compositus, vix prima silentia noctis 

Carpebam, et somno lumina victa dnbam ; 
Cum me saevus Amor prensum, sursumque capillis 

Excitat, ct lacerum pervigilare jubet. 
Tu famulus mens, irtquit, ames cum mille puellas, 

Solus lo, solus, dure jacere potes 1 ? 
Exilioet pedibus nudis, tuuicaque soluta, 

Omne iter impcdio, nullum iter expedio. 



Cupid bade me wing my pace, 
And try with him the rapid race. 
O'er the wild torrent, rude and deep 
By tangled brake and pendent steep, 
With weary foot I panting flew, 
My brow was chill with drops of dew 
And now my soul, exhausted, dying, 
To my lip was faintly flying ; 
And now I thought the spark had fled, 
When Cupid hover'd o'er my head, 
And, fanning light his breezy plume, 
Recall'd me from my languid gloom ; 
Then said, in accents half-reproving, 
" Why hast thou been a foe to loving V 



ODE XXXII. 1 

Strew me a breathing bed of leaves 
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves ; 



Nunc propero, nunc ire piget; rursumque redire 

Pcenitet; et pudor est stare via media. 
Ecce tacent voces hominum, strepitusque ferarum, 

Et volucrum cantus, turbaque fida canum. 
Solus ego ex cunctis paveo somnumque torumque, 

Et sequor imperium, sa3ve Cupido, tuum. 

Upon my couch I lay, at night profound, 
My languid eyes in magic slumber bound, 
When Cupid came and snatch'd me from my bed, 
And forced me many a weary way to tread. 
"What ! (said the god) shall you, whose vows are known, 
Who love so many nymphs, thus sleep alone?" 
I rise and follow; all the night I stray, 
Unshelter'd, trembling, doubtful of my way. 
Tracing with naked foot the painful track, 
Loth to proceed, yet fearful to go beck. 
Yes, at that hour, when Nature seems interr'd, 
Nor warbling birds, nor lowing flocks are heard; 
I, I alone, a fugitive from rest, 
Passion my guide, and madness in my breast, 
Wander the world around, unknowing where, 
The slave of love, the victim of despair! 
My brow was chill with drops of dew.] I have followed 
those who read retpsv »£p-.o5 for 7rsipsv vSj>og; the former is 
partly authorized by the MS. which reads jrs»ptv tSfoog. 

And now my soul, exhausted, dying, 

To my lip was faintly flying, etc.) In the original, ha 
says his heart flew to his nose ; but our manner more natu 
rally transfers it to the lips. Such is the effect that Plato 
tells us he felt from a kiss, in a distich, quoted by Aulus 
Gellius : 



HX§£ yap i\ r\vt^ 






Whene'er thy neciar'd kiss I sip, 
And drink thy breath, in melting twine, 

My soul then flutters to my lip, 
Ready to fly and mix with thine. 

Aulus Gellius subjoins a paraphrase of this epigram, in 
which we find many of those mignardises of expression, 
which mark the eflemination of the Latin language. 

And, fanning light his breezy plume, 

Recall'd me from my languid gloom.'] " The facility 
with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets of" 
love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may oc- 
casion." — La Fosse. 

1 We here have the poet, in his true attributes, reclimng 
upon myrtles, with Cupid for his cup-bearer. Some inter- 
preters have ruined the picture by making Epuij the name 
of his slave. None but Love should fill the goblet of Ana- 
creon. Sappho has assigned this office to Venus, in a frag- 
ment. E^6e, Ku;rpi, %puc-£t36<<ri4> tv xvXtxsara «v «£po*f <rv/u- 
ftif/.tyfiivov B-xhtxuri vixrup oivo%oouert« tovtohti -roig 
srsupoif £f/.otg ys mi 0-015. 

Which may be thus paraphrased : 

Hither, Venus! queen of kisses, 
This shall be the night of blisses' 



252 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



And, while in luxury's dream I sink, 
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink ! 
In this delicious hour of joy 
Young Love shall be my goblet-boy; 
Folding his little golden vest, 
With cinctures, round his snowy breast, 
Himself shall hover by my side, 
And minister the racy tide ! 
Swift as the wheels that kindling roll, 
Our life is hurrying to the goal : 
A scanty dust to feed the wind, 
Is all the trace 't will leave behind. 
Why do we shed the rose's bloom 
Upon the cold, insensate tomb ! 
Can flowery breeze, or odour's breath, 
Affect the slumbering chill of death ? 
No, no ; I ask no balm to steep 
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep : 
But now, while every pulse is glowing, 
Now let me breathe the balsam flowing ; 
Now let the rose with blush of fire, 
Upon my brow its scent expire ; 
And bring the nymph with floating eye, 
Oh! she will teach me how to die ! 
Yes, Cupid ! ere my soul retire, 
To join the blest Elysian choir, 
With wine, and love, and blisses dear, 
I'll make my own Elysium here ! 



ODE XXXIII. 1 

'T was noon of night, when round the pole 
The sullen Bear is seen to roll ; 
And mortals, wearied with the day, 
Are slumbering all their cares away : 
An infant, at that dreary hour, 
Came weeping to my silent bower, 
And waked me with a piteous prayer, 
To save him from the midnight air ! 
"And who art thou," I waking cry, 
" That bid'st my blissful visions fly ?" 



This the night, to friendship dear, 
Thoo shalt be our Hebe here. 
Fill the golden brimmer high, 
Let it sparkle like thine eye! 
Bid the rosy current gush, 
Let it mantle like thy blush! 
Venus! hast thou e'er above 
Seen a feast so rich in love 1 
Not a soul that is not mine ! 
Not a soul that is not thine ! 

« Compare with this ode (says the German commentator) 
the beautiful poem in Ramler's Lyr. Blumenlese, lib. iv. p. 
296. Amor als Diener." 

1 Monsieur Bemarde, the author of l'Art d'aimer, has 
written a ballet called " Les Surprises de l'Amour," in 
which the subject of the third entree is Anacreon, and the 
Btory of this ode suggests one of the scene3. CEuvres de 
Bernard, Anac. scene 4th. 

The German annotator refers us here to an imitation by 
Uz, lib. iii. "Amor und sein Bruder," and a poem of Kleist 
die Heilung La Fontaine has translated, or rather imitated, 
this ode. 

"And who art thou" I waking cry, 

« That bid'st my blissful visions fly?] Anacreon ap- 

Iiears to have been a voluptuary even in dreaming, by the 
ively regret which he expresses at being disturbed from his 
isionary enjoyments. See the odes x. and xxxvii. 



" O gentle sire !" the infant said,. 

In pity take me to thy shed ; 

Nor fear deceit : a lonely child 

I wander o'er the gloomy wild. 

Chill drops the rain, and not a ray 

Illumes the drear and misty way!" 

I hear the baby's tale of woe ; 

I hear the bitter night-winds blow ; 

And, sighing for his piteous fate, 

I trimm'd my lamp, and oped the gate. 

'T was Love ! the little wandering spril ?, 

His pinion sparkled through the night ! 

I knew him by his bow and dart ; 

I knew him by my fluttering heart ! 

I take him in, and fondly raise 

The dying embers' cheering blaze ; 

Press from his dank and clinging hair 

The crystals of the freezing air, 

And in my hand and bosom hold 

His little fingers thrilling cold. 

And now the embers' genial ray 

Had warm'd his anxious fears away ; 

" I pray thee," said the wanton child 

(My bosom trembled as he smiled,) 

" I pray thee let me try my bow, 

For through the rain I've wander'd so, 

That much I fear the ceaseless shower 

Has injured its elastic power." 

The fatal bow the urchin drew ; 

Swift from the string the arrow flew; 

Oh ! swift it flew as glancing flame, 

And to my very soul it came ! 

" Fare thee well," 1 heard him say, 

As laughing wild he wing'd away ; 

" Fare thee well, for now 1 know 

The rain has not relax'd my bow ; 

It still can send a maddening dart, 

As thou shalt own with all thy heart ! 



ODE XXXIV. 1 

Oh thou, of all creation blest, 
Sweet insect ! that delight' st to rest 
Upon the wild wood's leafy tops, 
To drink the dew that morning drops, 
And chirp thy song with such a glee, 
That happiest kings may envy thee ! 



'Twas Love! the little icanderivg sprite, etc.] See the 
beautiful description of Cupid, by Moschus, in his first idyl. 

1 Father Rapin, in a Latin ode addressed to the grasshop- 
per, has preserved some of the thoughts of our author . 
O quae virenti graminis in toro, 
Cicada, blande sidis, et heibidos 
Saltus oherras, otiosos 
Tngeniosa ciere cantus. 
Seu forte adultis floribus incubas, 
Coeli caducis ebria rletibus, etc 

Oh thou, that on the grassy bed 
Which Nature's vernal hand has spread, 
Reclinest soft, and tunest thy song, 
The dewy herbs and leaves among ! 
Whether thou liest on springing flowers, 
Drunk with the balmy morning-showers, 
Or, etc. 
See what Licetus says about grasshoppers, cap. 93 and 185 

Jlnd chirp thy son? with such a glee, etc.] " Some authors 
have affirmed (says Madame Dacier,) that it is only male 






ODES OF ANACREON. 



254 



Whatever decks the velvet field, 
Whate'er the circling seasons yield, 
Whatever buds, whatever blows, 
For thee it buds, for thee it grows. 
Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear, 
To him thy friendly notes are dear ; 
For thou art mild as matin dew, 
And still, when summer's flowery hue 
Begins to paint the bloomy plain, 
We hear thy sweet prophetic strain ; 
Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear, 
And bless the notes and thee revere 1 
The Muses love thy shrilly tone ; 
Apollo calls thee all his own ; 
'T was he who gave that voice to thee, 
'T is he who tunes thy minstrelsy. 
Unworn by age's dim decline, 
The fadeless blooms of youth are thine. 
Melodious insect ! child of earth ! 
In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth ; 
Exempt from every weak decay, 
That withers vulgar frames away ; 
With not a drop of blood to stain 
The current of thy purer vein ; 
So blest an age is pass'd by thee, 
Thou seem' st a little deity ! 



ODE XXXV. 1 

Cupid once upon a bed 

Of roses laid his weary head ; 



grasshoppers which sing, and that the females are silent; 
and on this circumstance is founded a bon-mot of Xenarchus, 
the comic poet, who says £<t' no-tv o» rerTiyss ova evSxt- 
fcovsg, cov tc**s yvvxi^w ovS' on ouv (pcovvjs ev* ; ' are not the 
grasshoppers happy in having dumb wives?' " This note is 
originally Henry Stephen's; but I chose rather to make 
Madame Dacier my authority for it. 

The Muses love thy shrilly tone, etc.] Phile, de Animal. 
Proprietat. calls this insect Mouo-ai; (p4\og, the darling of the 
Muses; and Mouo-oi/ opv»v, the bird of the Muses; and we 
find Plato compared for his eloquence to the grasshopper, in 
the following punning lines of Timon, preserved by Dioge- 
nes Laertius : 

T'jdv -sravToiv s ' yysiTO -srX.«TUO-T«TOf, esXX.' »yopy\ry\$ 
H3uJ5T>lJ TiTTi^ii/ lO-oypoXpog, 01 S' tx.oi.8yip.ov 
AevSpsa eQs^ofisvoi otto. Kt jp«o£<ro-(*i; »£«o-«. 

This last line is borrowed from Homer's Iliad, \. where 
there occurs the very same simile. 

Melodious insect! child of earth!] Longepierre has 
quoted the two first lines of an epigram of Antipater, from 
the first book of the Anthologia, where he prefers the 
grasshopper to the swan : 

Aj&xs« rsTTtyceg fts(jva m xi 5"poo-os, ctWot triovng 
AetSav xuxvouv e»o-i ysyuivortpoi. 

In dew, that drops from morning's wings, 

The gay Cicada sipping floats ; 
And, drunk with dew, his matin singa 
Sweeter than any cygnet's notes. 
1 Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nine- 
teenth idyl, but is very inferior, I think, to his original, in 
delicacy of point, and naivete of expression. Spenser in 
one of his smaller compositions, has sported more diffusely 
on the same subject. The poem to which I allude begins 
thus: 

Upon a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbering 

All in his mother's lap ; 
A gentle bee, with his loud trumpet murmuring, 
About him flew by hap, etc. 

Tn Almeloveen's collection of epigrams, there is one by 
Luxorius, correspondent somewhat with the turn of Ana 



Luckless urchin not to see 

Within the leaves a slumbering bee ! 

The bee awaked — with anger wild 

The bee awaked and stung the child. 

Loud and piteous are his cries ; 

To Venus quick he runs, he flies ! 

" Oh mother ! — I am wounded through — 

I die with pain — in sooth I do ! 

Stung by some little angry thing, 

Some serpent on a tiny wing — 

A bee it was — for once, I know, 

I heard a rustic call it so." 

Thus he spoke, and she the while 

Heard him with a soothing smile ; 

Then said, " My infant, if so much 

Thou feel the little wild bee's touch, 

How must the heart, ah, Cupid ! be, 

The hapless heart that 's stung by thee 1" 



ODE XXXVI. 

If hoarded gold possess'd a power 
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour, 



creon, where Love complains to his mother of being wound- 
ed Ly a rose. 

The ode before us is the very flower of simplicity. The 
infantine complainings of the little god, and the natural and 
impressive reflections which they draw from Venus, are 
beauties of inimitable grace. I hope I shall be pardoned for 
introducing another Greek Anacreontic of Monsieur Men- 
age, not for its similitude to the subject of this ode, but for 
some faint traces of this natural simplicity which it appears 
to me to have preserved: 

Epcoj -ETO-r' IV %0p£»06»5 

Tcof ■crapflfvajv ctco-rov 
Ttfv fiot <$i\y\v Kopjvvsev 
£2? eiSev, a>j -Erpoj kut^k 

JJpOCTeSpsl/te' Tp«%S)X.U) 
AlSvftXS TS %£«p»S KTTCOK 
3>JX£« fitB, f*>lT£p, IITTB. 

Kx*.ovp.iv>i Koptwx 
M^TSjp, spvtjptxfy^ 
€1$ -a-apSivos f*sv ovtrct. 
X' auTOf ^£ Suo-xspxiviaV) 
Qf Oftfixcrt •n-\»v(iB£i5, 
Epcof epvSpixi^ei. 
TLyui 8s oi ■srapsto-ToSf, 
My} oW%£paiv£, (py]fit. 

KuTTplV T£ %OH Kop»VVo6t» 
Aiosyvtoo-M* OVX. £%0UO"t 
Ka< oi /3x£7rovT£s o£v. 

As dancing o'er the enamell'd plain, 
The flow'ret of the virgin train, 
My soul's Corinna, lightly play'd, 
Young Cupid saw the graceful maid ; 
He saw, and in a moment flew, 
And round her neck his arms he threw; 
And said, with smiles of infant joy, 
" Oh ! kiss me, mother, kiss thy boy !" 
Unconscious of a mother's name, 
The modest virgin blush'd with shame ! 
And angry Cupid, scarce believing 
That vision could be so deceiving 
Thus to mistake his Cyprian dame, 
The little infant blush'd with shame. 
" Be not ashamed, my boy," I cried, 
For I was lingering by his side ; 
"Corinna and thy lovely mother, 
Believe me, are so like each other, 
That clearest eyes are oft betray'd, 
And take thy Venus for the maid." 

Zitto, in his Cappriciosi Pensieri, has translated this ode 
of Anacreon. 

1 Monsieur Fontenelle has translated this ode, in his dia- 
logue between Anacreon and Aristotle in the shades, wii&xe 
he bestows the prize of wisdom upon the poet. 



254 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



And purchase from the hand of death 

A little span, a moment's breath, 

How I would love the precious ore ! 

And every day should swell my store ; 

Tnat when the Fates would send their minion, 

To waft me off on shadowy pinion, 

I might some hours of life obtain, 

And bribe him back to hell again. 

But, since we ne'er can charm away 

The mandate of that awful day, 

Why do we vainly weep at fate, 

And sigh for life's uncertain date ? 

The light of gold can ne'er illume 

The dreary midnight of the tomb ! 

And why should I then pant for treasures ? 

Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures; 

The goblet rich, the board of friends, 

Whose flowing souls the goblet blends ! 

Mine be the nymph whose form reposes 

Seductive on that bed of roses ; 

And oh ! be mine the soul's excess, 

Expiring in her warm caress ! 



ODE XXXVII. 1 

'T was night, and many a circling bowl 
Had deeply warm'd my swimming soul ; 



"The German imitators of it are, Lessing, in his poem 
Gestern Briider, etc' Gleim, in the ode ' An den Tod,' 
and Schmidt in der Poet. Blumenl. Gotting. 1783, p. 7." — 
Degen. % 

That when the Fates would send their minion, 
To waft me off on shadowy pinion, etc.] The commen- 
tators, who are so fond of disputing " delanacaprina," have 
been very busy on the authority of the phrase <v' av davnv 
iTTiXbv. The reading of «v' «v ©avxTos sttsXoii, which De 
Medenbach proposes in his Amcenitates Litterarise, was 
already hinted by Le Fevre, who seldom suggests any thing 
worth notice. 

The goblet rich, the board of friends, 

Whose flowing souls the goblet blends!] This commu- 
nion of friendship, which sweetened the bowl of Anacreon, 
has not been forgotten by the author of the following scho- 
lium, where the blessings of life are enumerated with pro- 
verbial simplicity. Yytxivttv (tsv apia-rov xvSfn 2rv*Ta. 
bivrepov Ss, x»Xov $vt]v ytvt<r5»t. To Tp»TOi/ Si, 57-A.oute«v 
xSoKwg. Kai to TSTapToi/, <rvv>]S*v fttTX tmv qjiAiov. 

Of mortal blessings here, the first is health, 
And next, those charms by which the eye we move; 

The third is wealth, unwounding, guiltless wealth, 
And then, an intercourse with those we love! 

1 "Compare with this ode the beautiful poem, 'der 
1'raum of Uz.' " — Degen. 

Monsieur Le Fevre, in a note upon this ode, enters into 
an elaborate and learned justification of drunkenness; and 
this is probably the cause of the severe reprehension which 
I believe he suffered for his Anacreon. " Fuit olim fateor 
(says he, in a note upon Longinus,) cum Sapphonem ama- 
bam. Sed ex quo ilia me perditissimafoemina pene miserum 
perdidit cum sceleratissimo suo congerrone (Anacreontem 
dico, si nescis Lector,) noli sperare," etc. etc. He adduces 
on this ode the authority of Plato, who allowed ebriety, at 
the Dionysian festivals, to men arrived at their fortieth year. 
He likewise quotes the following line from Alexis, which he 
says no one, who is not totally ignorant of the world, can 
Desitate to confess the truth of: 

Ou$£»j <pi\o;roTi!f £<rr»i/ «i/.9-pto7ro; xaxo?. 
" No lover of drinking was ever a vicious man." 

when all my dream of joys, 
Dimpled girls and ruddy boys, 

Jill tcere gone!] Nonnussays of Bacchus, almost in the 
tame words that Anacveon uses, 



As lull'd in slumber I was laid, 
Bright visions o'er my fancy play'd ! 
With virgins, blooming as the dawn, 
I seem'd to trace the opening lawn ; 
Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew, 
We flew, and sported as we flew ! 
Some ruddy striplings, young and sleek, 
With blush of Bacchus on their cheek, 
Saw me trip the flowery wild 
With dimpled girls, and slyly smiled — 
Smiled indeed with wanton glee; 
But ah ! 't was plain they envied me. 
And still I flew-^-and now I caught 
The panting nymphs, and fondly thought 
To kiss — when all my dream of joys, 
Dimpled girls and ruddy boys, 
All were gone ! " Alas !" I said, 
Sighing for the illusions fled, 
" Sleep ! again my joys restore, 
Oh ! let me dream them o'er and o'er !" 



ODE XXXVIII. 1 

Let us drain the nectar'd bowl, 
Let us raise the song of soul 
To him, the god who loves so well 
The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell ! 
Him, who instructs the sons of earth 
To thrid the tangled dance of mirth ; 
Him, who was nursed with infant Love, 
And cradled in the Paphian grove , 
Him, that the snowy Queen of Charms 
Has fondled in her twining arms. 
From him that dream of transport flows, 
Which sweet intoxication knows ; 
With him the brow forgets to darkle, 
And brilliant graces learn to sparkle. 
Behold ! my boys a goblet bear, 
Whose sunny foam bedews the air. 
Where are now the tear, the sigh ? 
To the winds they fly, they fly ! 
Grasp the bowl ; in nectar sinlcng, 
Man of sorrow, drown thy think ng ! 



napSsVOV OUZ' 



Eypopivog Ss 
Wia-s, xxt >)Cr£A.6v etvSig 



Waking, he lost the phantom's charms, 

He found no beauty in his arms ; 

Again to slumber he essay'd, 

Again to clasp the shadowy maid ! Longcpierre. 

" Sleep ! again my joys restore, 

Oh! let me dream them o'er and o'er!] Doctor Johnson, 
in his preface to Shakspeare, animadverting upon the com- 
mentators of that poet, who pretended, in every little coinci 
dence of thought, to detect an imitation of some ancient 
poet, alludes in the following words to the line of Anacreon 
before us: "I have been told that when Caliban, after a 
pleasing dream, says, 'I tried to sleep again,' the author 
imitates Anacreon, who had, like any other man, the same 
wish on the same occasion." 

1 " Compare with this beautiful ode the verses of Hage- 
dorn, lib. v. das Gesellschaftliche ; and of Burger, p. 51," 
etc. etc. — Degen. 

Him, that the snotcy Queen of Charms 
Has fondled in her twining arms.] Robertellus, upon 
theepithalamium of Catullus, mentions an ingenious neriva- 
ion of Cytheroea, the name of Venus, ?r«p* to -/.i-jiitv too; 
po)Toe ; , which seems to hint that "Love's fairy favours are 
lost, when not concealed." 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



255 



Oh ! can the tears we lend to thought 
In life's account avail us aught ? 
Can we discern, with all our lore, 
The path we're yet to journey o'er? 
No, no, the walk of life is dark, 
T is wine alone can strike a spark ! 
Then let me quaff the foamy tide, 
And through the dance meandering glide ; 
Let me imbibe the spicy breath 
Of odours chafed to fragrant death ; 
Or from the kiss of love inhale 
A more voluptuous, richer gale ! 
To souls that court the phantom Care, 
Let him retire and shroud him there ; 
While we exhaust the nectar'd bowl, 
And swell the choral song of soul 
To him, the God who loves so well 
The nectar'd bowl, the choraPswell 1 



ODE XXXIX. 

How I love the festive boy, 
Tripping with the dance of joy! 
How I love the mellow sage, 
Smiling through the veil of age ! 
And whene'er this man of years 
In the dance of joy appears, 
Age is on his temples hung, 
But his heart — his heart is young ! 



ODE XL. 

I know that Heaven ordains me here 
To run this mortal life's career ; 
The scenes which I have journey'd o'er 
Return no more — alas ! no more ; 
And all the path I 've yet to go 
I neither know nor ask to know. 
Then surely, Care, thou canst not twine 
Thy fetters round a soul like mine ; 
No, no, the heart that feels with me 
Can never be a slave to thee ! 
And oh ! before the vital thrill, 
Which trembles at my heart, is still, 
I'll gather joy's luxurious flowers, 
And gild with bliss my fading hours ; 
Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom, 
And Venus dance me to the tomb ! 



JVo, no, the walk of life is dark, 

'Tis wine alone can strike a spark!] The brevity of 
life allows arguments for the voluptuary as well as the 
moralist. Among many parallel passages which Longepierre 
has adduced, I shall content myself with this epigram from 
the Anthologia : 

Aoutra^svoJ, IIpoJ'ixii, jruxao-cojUsSa, x*t rov ay.pa.ro 

2A.JC0OJKEV, XVXlXStJ /t*£l£ov«S CtflXftiVOt. 
fxiOg C XXtpOVTUlV 6(TT» /3«0S. SITSS T« A.0*!TS» 
TypXS XCo\U<rS«, XCtl TO T£A.0$ .&<»|/«T0{. 

Of which the following is a loose paraphrase: 

Fly, my beloved, to yonder stream, 
We'll plunge us from the noontide beam ! 
Then cull the rose's humid bud, 
And dip it in our goblet's flood. 
Our age of bliss, my nymph, shall fly 
As sweet, though passing, as that sigh 
Which seems to whisper o'er your lip, 
"Come, while you may, of rapture sip." 
For age will steal the rosy form, 
And chill the pulse, which trembles warm ! 
And death — alas! that hearts, which thrill 
Like yours and mine, should e'er be still! 

Jlge is on his temples hung; 

But his heart — his heart is young .'] Saint Pavin makes 
(he same distinction iD a sonnet to a young girl. 

Je sais bien que les destinees 
Ont mal compasse nos annees; 
Ne regardez que mon amour. 
Peut-etre en serez vous emue: 
II est jeune, et n'est que du jour, 
Belle Iris, que je vous ai vuo. 

Fair and young, thou bloomest now, 

And I full many a year have told ; 
But read the heart and not the brow, 

Thou shalt not find my love is old. 

My love 's a child ; and thou canst say 

How much his little age may be, 
For he was born the very day 

That first 1 set my eyes on thee ! ' 



ODE XLI. 

When Spring begems the dewy scene, 
How sweet to walk the velvet green, 
And hear the Zephyr's languid sighs, 
As o'er the scented mead he flies ! 
How sweet to mark the pouting vine, 
Ready to fall in tears of wine ; 
And with the maid whose every sigh 
Is love and bliss, entranced to lie 
Where the embowering branches meet- 
On ! is not this divinely sweet ? 



JVo, no, the heart that feels with me, 

Can never be a slave to thee!] Longepierre quotes an 
epigram here from the Anthologia, on account of the simi- 
larity of a particular phrase ; it is by no means anacreontic, 
but has an interesting simplicity which induced me to para 
phase it, and may atone for its intrusion. 



EX?r«;, xa« o-y, tu%jj, Miyx %a<psTE. 

Ou$SV SjttOJ %' t/jU(l/. 5TC4J£«T6 TOUJ //.Bl 



to XiiAtv' evpov 



At length to Fortune, and to you, 
Delusive Hope! a last adieu. 
The charm that once beguiled is o'er, 
And I have reach'd my destined shore! 
Away, away, your flattering arts 
May now betray some simpler hearts, 
And you will smile at their believing, 
And they shall weep at your deceiving ! 

Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom, 

Jind Venus dance me to the tomb !] The same commen- 
tator has quoted an epitaph, written upon our poet by Julian 
where he makes him give the precepts of good-fellowship 
even'Trom the tomb. 



IIoU*xi ftsv 



rO?' «S«(T«, X«» £X TU/ltSou $1 /3o>)<rtt> 

v TseuTiji' ajCtip jSa\>j(rSs xoviv. 



This lesson oft in life I sung, 

And from my grave I still shall cry, 

"Drink, mortal! drink, while time is young 
Ere death has made thee cold as 1." 

Jind with the maid, whose every sigh 
Is love and bliss, etc.] Thus Horace: 

Quid habes illius, illius 
Quae spirabat amores, 
Quce me surpueratmihi. 

And does there then remain but this, 
^ And hast thou lost each rosy ray 

Of her, who breathed ihe soul of bliss, 
And stole me from myself away '.' 



256 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



ODE XIII. 1 

Yes, be the glorious revel mine, 

Where humour sparkles from the wine ! 

Around me let the youthful choir 

Respond to my beguiling lyre ; 

And while the red cup circles round, 

Mingle in soul as well as sound ! 

Let the bright nymph, with trembling eye, 

Beside me all in blushes lie ; 

And, while she weaves a frontlet fair 

Of hyacinth to deck my hair, 

Oh ! let me snatch her sidelong kisses, 

And that shall be my bliss of blisses ! 

My soul, to festive feeling true, 

One pang of envy never knew; 

And little has it learn'd to dread 

The gall that Envy's tongue can shed. 

Away — I hate the slanderous dart, 

Which steals to wound the unwary heart ; 

And oh ! I hate, with all my soul, 

Discordant clamours o'er the bowl, 

Where every cordial heart should be 

Attuned to peace and harmony. 

Gome, let us hear the soul of song 

Expire the silver harp along : 

And through the dance's ringlet move, 

With maidens mellowing into love ; 

Thus simply happy, thus at peace, 

Sure such a life should never cease I 



ODE XLIH. 

While our rosy fillets shed 
Blushes o'er each fervid head, 
With many a cup and many a smile 
The festal moments we beguile. 
And while the harp, impassion'd, flings 
Tuneful rapture from the strings, 



1 The character of Anacreon is here very strikingly de- 
picted. His love of social, harmonized pleasures is express- 
ed with a warmth, amiable and endearing. Among the 
epigrams imputed to Anacreon is the following; it is the 
only one worth translation, and it breathes the same senti- 
ments with this ode : 

Oo $1X05, og xpyrvipi txu.p<*. uXea) o«vOtf-OTa£<oi/, 

AX.X' ocrrig M0U(T£(OV T£, sea* a.yKa.0. Soup A^pO^JT^f 
Evp./n.ttryu)V i ep&rqg ftvucrxiTcii ivqpoqivvyig. 

When to the lip the brimming cup is press'd, 
And hearts are all afloat upon the stream, 

Then banish from my board the unpolish'd guest 
Who makes the feats of war his barbarous theme. 

But bring the man, who o'er his goblet wreathes 
The Muse's laurel with the Cyprian flower: 

Oh I give me him whose heart expansive breathes 
Allthe refinements of the social hour. 

And while the harp, impassion'd, flings 

Tuneful rapture from the strings, etc.] On the barbiton 
a host of authorities may be collected, which, after all, leave 
us ignorant of the nature of the instrument. There is 
scarcely any point upon which we are so totally uninform- 
ed as the music of the ancients. The authors (a) extant 
upon the subject are, I imagine, little understood ; but cer- 
Jainly if one of their moods was a progression by quarter- 
tones, which we are told was the nature of the enharmonic 
scale, simplicity was by no means the characteristic of y^eir 

(at Collected by Meibomius. 



Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs, 
Through the dance luxuriant swims, 
Waving, in her snowy hand, 
The leafy Bacchanalian wand, 
Which, as the tripping wanton flies, 
Shakes its tresses to her sighs ! 
A youth, the while, with loosen'd hair 
Floating on the listless air, 
Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone, 
A tale of woes, alas ! his own ; 
And then, what nectar in his sigh. 
As o'er his lip the murmurs die 
Surely never yet has been 
So divine, so blest a scene ! 
Has Cupid left the starry sphere, 
To wave his golden tresses here ? 
Oh yes ! and Venus, queen of wiles, 
And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles, 
All, all are here, to hail with me 
The Genius of Festivity! 



ODE XLTVV 

Buds of roses, virgin flowers, 
Cull'd from Cupid's balmy bowers, 
In the bowl of Bacchus steep, 
Till with crimson drops they weep ! 
Twine the rose, the garland twine, 
Every leaf distilling wine ; 



melody ; for this is a nicety of progression of which modern 
music is not susceptible. 

The invention of the barbiton is, by Athenffius, attributed 
to Anacreon. See his fourth book, where it is called to 
t-vpwx tou AvxxpsovTos. Neanthes of Cyzicus, as quoted 
by Gyraldus, asserts the same. Vide Chabot. in Horat on 
the words " Lesboum barbiton," in the first ode. 

And, then, what nectar in his sigh, 

As o'er his lip the murncurs die!] Longepierre haa 
quoted here an epigram from the Anthologia : 



Kovpq rtg [i? tcpiKya-B -nroSso-jrspa xtiXitriv vypotg. 

NjXTOSp £yjV TO <?IKV\(L~, 
Nw fitSvM TO <f l'KV\(AX.. 



i y*p (TTOftx. vty.ra.pog ittvh 

KM TOV £pu)T06 'ETJjrwXOUJ. 



Of which the following may give some idea: 
The kiss that she left on my lip 

Like a dew-drop shall lingering lie; 
'Twas nectar she gave me to sip, 
*Twas nectar I drank in her sigh!. 

The dew that distili'd in that kiss, 

To my soul was voluptuous wine; 
Ever since it is drunk with the bliss, 
And feels a delirium divine 1 
Has Cupid left the starry sphere, 

To wave his golden tresses here ?] The introduction of 
these deities to the festival is merely allegorical. Madame 
Dacier thinks that the poet describes a masquerade, where 
these deities were personated by the company in masks. 
The translation will conform with either idea. 
All, all here, to hail with me 

The Oenius of Festivity!] K^oj, the deity or genius 
of mirth. Philostratus, in the third of his pictures (as all 
the annotators have observed) gives a very beautiful de- 
scription of this god. 

1 This spirited poem is an eulogy on the rose ; and again, 
in the fifty-fifth ode, we shall find our author rich in the 
praises of that flower. In a fragment of Sappho, in the 
romance of Achilles Tatius, to which Barnes refers us, the 
rose is very elegantly styled " the eye of flowers ;" and the 
same poetess, in another fragment, calls the favours of the 
Mu,se " the roses of Pieria." See the notes on the fifty- 
fifth ode. 

" Compare with this forty-fourth ode (says the Germas 
annotator) the beautiful ode of Uz. die Rose." 






ODES OF ANACREON. 



257 



Drink and smile, and learn to think 
That we were born to smile and drink. 
Rose ! thou art the sweetest flower 
That ever drank the amber shower; 
Rose ! thou art the fondest child 
Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild ! 
Even the gods, who walk the sky, 
Are amorous of thy scented sigh. 
Cupid too, in Paphian shades, 
His hair with rosy fillet braids, 
When, with the blushing naked Graces, 
The wanton winding dance he traces. 
Then bring me showers of roses, bring, 
And shed them round me while I sing ; 
Great Bacchus ! in thy hallow'd shade, 
With some celestial, glowing maid, 
While gales of roses round me rise, 
In perfume sweeten'd by her sighs, 
I 'li bill and twine in early dance, 
Commingling soul with every glance ! 



ODE XLV. 

Within this goblet, rich and deep, 

I cradle all my woes to sleep. 

Why should we breathe the sigh of fear, 

Or pour the unavailing tear ? 

For Death will never heed the sigh, 

Nor soften at the tearful eye ; 

And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep, 

Must all alike be seal'd in sleep ; 

Then let us never vainly stray, 

In search of thorns, from pleasure's way ; 

Oh ! let us quaff the rosy wave 

w hich Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave ; 

Ana in the goblet, rich and deep, 

Cradle our crying woes to sleep ! 



ODE XLVI.' 

See, the voung, the rosy Spring, 
Gives to the breeze her spangled wing ; 



When with, the blushing, naked Graces, 
The wanton winding dance he traces.] "This sweet 
idea of Love dancing with the Graces, is almost peculiar to 
Anacreon." — Degen. 

With some celestial, glowing maid, etc] The epithet 
/S«5uxo\7ro;, which he gives to the nymph, is literally "full- 
bosoined:" if this was really Anacreon's taste, the heaven 
of Mahomet would suit him in every particular. See the 
Koran, cap. 72. 

Then let us never vainly stray, 

In search of 'horns from Pleasure's way, etc.] I have 
thus endeavoured to con-vey the meaning of t» St toi> p»ov 
■aKxvuifixi ; according to Regnier's paraphrase of the line: 
E che vat, fuor della strada 
Del piacere alma e gradita, 
Vaneggiare in que ta vita? 
] The fastidious affectation of some commentators has 
denounced this ode as spurious. Degen pronounces the 
four last lint-s to he the patch-work of some miserable ver- 
sificator; and Brunck condemns the whole ode. It appears 
to me to be elegantly graphical; full of elegant expressions 
and luxurious imag.ry. The abruptness of 15s ira>s eapo? 
<p«t<£i/To; is striking and spirited, and has been imitated 
rather languidly by Horace: 

Vides at alta stet nive candidum 

Soracte ■ 

2 K 



While virgin Graces, warm with May, 
Fling roses o'er her dewy way ! 
The murmuring billows of the deep 
Have languish' d into silent sleep ; 
And mark ! the flitting sea-birds lave 
Their plumes in the reflecting wave ; 
While cranes from hoary winter flv 
To flutter in a kinder sky. 
Now the genial star of day 
Dissolves the murky clouds away ; 
And cultured held, and winding stream 
Are sweetly tissued by his beam. 
Now the earth prolific swells 
With leafy buds and flowery bells ; 
Gemming shoots the olive twine, 
Clusters ripe festoon the vine ; 
All along the branches creeping, 
Through the velvet foliage peeping, 
Little infant fruits we see 
Nursing into luxury ! 



ODE XLVII. 

'T rs true, my fading years decline, 

Yet I can quaff the brimming wine 

As deep as any stripling fair 

Whose cheeks the flush of morning wea*; 

And if, amidst the wanton crew, 

I 'm cali'd to wind the dance's clue, 

Thou shalt behold this vigorous hand, 

Not faltering on the bacchant's wand, 

But brandishing a rosy flask, 

The only thyrsus e'er I '11 ask ! 



The imperative »<5"£ is infinitely more impressive, as in 
Shakspeare, 

But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, 
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill. 

There is a simple and poetical description of Spring, in 
Catullus's beauiiful farewell to Bithynia. Carm. 44. 

Barnes conjectures, in his life of our poet, that this ode 
was written after he had returned from Athens, to settle in 
his paternal seat at Teos ; there, in a little villa at some dis- 
tance from the city, which commanded a view of the /Egean 
Sea and the islands, he contemplated the beauties of nature, 
and enjoyed the felicities of retirement. Vide Barnes, in 
Anac. vita. § xxxv. This supposition, however unauthen- 
ticated, forms a pleasant association, which makes the poem 
more interesting. 

Monsieur Chevreau says, that Gregory Na7ianzcnus has 
paraphrased somewhere this description of Spring. I can- 
not find it. See Chevreau, QSuvres Melees. 

" Compare with this ode (says Degen) the verses of Hage- 
dorn, book fourth, der Friihling, and book fifth, der Mai." 

While virgin Graces, warm with May, 

Fling roses o'er her dewy way 1] De Pauw reads, Xapi- 
Tscf poSx Spuouiriv, "the ros>'S display their graces." This 
is not uningenious ; but we lose by it the beauty of the per- 
sonification, to the boldness of which Regnier has objected 
very frivolously. 

The murmuring billows of the deep 

Have languished into silent sleep, etc.] It has been 
justly remarked that the liquid flow of the line x7txK'jvstxi 
■yxkvivvi is perfectly expressive of the tranquillity which it 
describes. 

And cultured field, and winding stream, etc.] By /3po- 
twv spyx, "the works of men," (says Baxter,) he means 
cities, temples, and towns, which are then illuminated by 
the beams of the sun. 

But brandishing a rosy flask, etc.] Aa-xoj was a kind 
of leathern vessel for wine, very much in use, as should 
seem by the proverb «<rxo s x.*i -3-uXaxo;, which was applied 
I to those who were intemperate in eating and drinkinsr. Tin* 



258 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Let those who pant for glory's charms 
Embrace her in the field of arms ; 
While my inglorious, placid soul 
Breathes not a wish beyond the bowl. 
Then fill it high, my ruddy slave, 
And bathe me in its honied wave ! 
For, though my fading years decay, 
And though my bloom has pass'd away, 
Like old Silenus, sire divine, 
With blushes borrow'd from my wine, 
I '11 wanton 'mid the dancing train, 
And live my follies aU again ! 



ODE XLVIII. 

When my thirsty soul I steep, 
Every sorrow 's lull'd to sleep. 
Talk of monarchs ! I am then 
Richest, happiest, first of men ; 
Careless o'er my cup I sing, 
Fancy makes me more than king ; 
Gives me wealthy Croesus' store, 
Can I, can I wish for more ? 
Oa my velvet couch reclining, 
Ivy leaves my brow entwining, 
While my soul dilates with glee, 
What are kings and crowns to me ? 
If before my feet they lay, 
I would spurn them all away ! 
Arm you, arm you, men of might, 
Hasten to the sanguine fight — 
Let me, oh, my budding vine ! 
Spill no other blood than thine. 
Yonder brimming goblet see, 
That alone shall vanquish me ; 
Oh ! I think it sweeter far 
To fall in banquet than in war ! 



ODE XLIX. 1 

When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy, 
The rosy harbinger of joy, 



proverb is mentioned in some verses quoted by Athenaeus, 
irom the Hesione of Alexis. 

The only thyrsus e'er Pll ask!] Phornutus assigns as a 
jeason for the consecration of the thyrsus to Bacchus, that 
inebriety of;en renders the support of a stick very necessary. 

Ivy leaves my brow entwining, etc.] " The ivy was con- 
secrated to Bacchus (says Montfaucon,) because he formerly 
lay hid under that tree, or, as others will have it, because 
its leaves resemble those of the vine. Other reasons for its 
consecration, and the use of it in garlands at banquets, may 
be found in Longepierre, Barnes, etc. etc. 

Jinn you, arm you, men of might, 

Hasten to the sanguine fight.] I have adopted the inter- 
pretation of Regnier and others : 

Altri segua Marte fero ; 

Che sol Bacco e '1 mio conforto. 
1 This, the preceding ode, and a few more of the same 
eharacter, are merely chansons a boire. Most likely they 
were the effusions of the moment of conviviality, and were 
iung, we imagine, with rapture in Greece ; but that interest- 
ing association, by which they always recalled the convivial 
emotions that produced them, can be very little felt by the 
most enthusiastic reader; and much less by a phlegmatic 
grammarian, who sees nothing in them but dialects and 
pa Uc'.es- 



Who, with the sunshine of the bowl, 
Thaws the winter of our soul ; 
When to my inmost core he glides, 
And bathes it with his ruby tides, 
A flow of joy, a lively heat, 
Fires my brain, and wings my feet ! 
'T is surely something sweet, I think, 
Nay, something heavenly sweet, to drink r 
Sing, sing of love, let Music's breath 
Softly beguile our rapturous death, 
While, my young Venus, thou and I 
To the voluptuous cadence die ! 
Then, waking from our languid trance, 
Again we '11 sport, again we '11 dance. 



ODE L. 1 

When I drink, I feel, I feel 

Visions of poetic zeal ! 

Warm with the goblet's freshening dews, 

My heart invokes the heavenly Muse. 

When I drink, my sorrow 's o'er ; 

I think of doubts and fears no more ; 

But scatter to the railing wind 

Each gloomy phantom of the mind ! 

When I drink, the jesting boy, 

Bacchus himself, partakes my joy; 

And, while we dance through breathing bowers, 

Whose every gale is rich with flowers, 



Who, icith the sunshine of the bowl, 

Thaws the winter of our soul.] Au»io; is the title whicli 
he gives to Bacchus in the original. It is a curious circum- 
stance, that Plutarch mistook the name of Levi among ths 
Jews for Asu* (one of the bacchanal cries,) and accordingly 
supposed they worshipped Bacchus. 

1 Faber thinks this spurious; but, I believe, he is singular 
in his opinion. It has all the spirit of our author. Like the 
wreath which he presented in the dream, "it smells of Ana- 
creon." 

The form of this ode, in the original, is remarkable. It 
is a kind of song of seven quatrain stanzas, each beginning 
with the line 

Or* tyu) zrtia tov otvov, 

The first stanza alone is incomplete, consisting but of 
three lines. 

" Compare with this poem (says Degen) the verses of 
Hagedorn, lib. v. der Wein, where that divine poet has 
wantoned in the praises of wine." 

When I drink, 1 feel, I feel 

Visions of poetic zeal!] " Anacreon is not the only one 
(says Longepierre) whom wine has inspired with poetry. 
There is an epigram in the first book of the Authologia, 
which begins thus: 



Xxpuvri fteyttf irsXsi ur^Of *o»5v« 

3-IVCUV, XXKOV OV T£XO»f £5T0S." 



If with water you fill up your glasses, 
You'll never write any thing wise; 

For wine is the horse of Parnassus, 
Which hurries a bard to the skies ! 

Ana", while we dance through breathing bowers, etc.] If 
some of the translators had observed Doctor Trapp's cau- 
tion, with regard to itoXvmvSso-** ft sv oevpaig, " Cave ne cce- 
lum intelligas," they would not have spoiled the simplicity 
of Anacreon's fancy, by such extravagant conceptions of 
the passage. Could our poet imagine such bombast as the 
following : 

Quand je bois, mon ceil s'imagine 
Q.ue, dans un tourbillon plein de parfums divers, 

Bacchus m' emporte dans les airs, 

Rempli de sa liqueur divine. 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



2£3 



In bowls he makes my senses swim, 
Till the gale breathes of nought but him ! 
When I drink, I deftly twine 
Flowers, begemm'd with tears of wine ; 
And, while with festive hand I spread 
The smiling garland round my head, 
Something whispers in my breast, 
How sweet it is to live at rest ! 
When I drink, and perfume stills 
Around me all in balmy rills, 
Then as some beauty, smiling roses, 
In languor on my breast reposes, 
Venus ! I breathe my vows to thee, 
In many a sigh of luxury ! 
When I drink, my heart refines, 
And rises as the cup declines, — 
Rises in the genial flow 
That none but social spirits know,' 
When youthful revellers, round the bow 
Dilating, mingle soul with soul ! 
When I drink, the bliss is mine, — 
There 's bliss in every drop of rrine ! 
Ail other joys that I have known, 
I 've scarcely dared to call my own ; 
But this the Fates can ne'er destroy, 
Till Death o'ershadows all my joy ! 



ODE LI. 1 

Fly not thus, my brow of snow, 
Lovely wanton ! fly not so. 
Though the wane of age is mine, 
Though the; brilliant flush is thine, 
Still I'm doom'd to sigh for thee, 
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me ! 



Of this : 

Tndi mi mena 
Mentre lietro ebro deliro 
Baccho in giro 
Per la vaga aura serena. 

When youthful revellers, round the bowl, 
Dilating, mingle soul with soul!] Subjoin^ to Gail's 
edition of Anacreon, there are some curious letters upon the 
fc>»*G-o< of the ancients, which appeared in theFiench Jour- 
nals. At the opening of theOdeon, in Paris, the managers of 
the spectacle requested Professor Gail to give them some un- 
common name for the fetes of this institution. He suggest- 
ed the word " Thiase," which was adopted ; but the literati 
of Paris questioned the propriety of it, and addressed their 
criticisms to Gail, through the medium of the public prints. 
Two or three of the letters he has inserted in his edition, 
and they have elicited from him some learned research on 
the subject. 

1 Alberti has imitated this ode ; and Capilupus, in the 
following epigram, has given a version of it: 

Cur, Lalage, mea vita, meos contemnis amores? 

Cur fugis e nostra pulchra puella sinu 1 
Ne fugias, sint sparsa licet mea tempora canis, 

Inque tuo roseus fulgoat ore color. 
Aspice ut intextas deceant quoque flore corollas 

Candida purpureis lilia mixta rosis. 

Oh ! why repel my soul's impassion'd vow, 
And fly, beloved maid, these longing arms ? 

Is it, that wintry time has strew'd my brow, 
And thine are all the summer's roseate charms 1 

See the rich garland, cull'd in vernal weather, 
Where the young rosebud with the lily glows ; 

In wreaths of love we thus may twine together, 
And I will be the lily, thou the rose ! 



See, in yonder flowery braid, 
Cull'd for thee, my blushing maid, 
How the rose, of orient glow, 
Mingles with the lily's snow ; 
Mark, how sweet their tints agree, 
Just, my girl, like thee and me ! 



ODE LII. 1 
Away, away, you men of rules, 
What have I to do with schools ? 
They 'd make me learn, they 'd make me think, 
But would they make me love and drink 7 
Teach me this, and let me swim 
My soul upon the goblet's brim ; 
Teach me this, and let me twine 
My arms around the nymph divine ! 
Age begins to blanch my brow, 
I 've time for nought but pleasure now. 
Fly, and cool my goblet's glow 
At yonder fountain's gelid flow ; 
I '11 quaff, my boy, and calmy sink 
This soul to slumber as 1 drink ! 
Soon, too soon, my jocund slave, 
You '11 deck your master's grassy grave , 
And there 's an end — for ah ! you know 
They drink but little wine below ! 



ODE LIII. 

When I behold the festive train 
Of dancing youth, I 'm young again ! 



See in yonder flowery braid, 

CulVdfor thee, my blushing maid!] " In the same man- 
ner that Anacreon pleads for the whiteness of his ,ocks, from 
the beauty of the colour in garlands, a shepherd, in Theocri- 
tus, endeavours to recommend his black hair : 

K*» to tov fteKxv £<tt», nut x y^nra. vunivSoe 

A\A.' IflTTUf tV T0«S (TTtCpXVOlg TO, Up-jlTX Xsyovrxt." 

Longepierre, Barnes etc. 

1 This is doubtless the work of a more modern poet than 
Anacreon; for at the period when he lived, rhetoricians 
were not known." — Degen. 

Though the antiquity of this ode is confirmed by the Va- 
tican manuscript, I am very much inclined to igre9 In this 
argument against its authenticity; for, though the dawnings 
of rhetoric might already have appeared, the first who gave 
it any celebrity was Corax of Syracuse, and he flourished in 
the century after Anacreon. 

Our poet anticipated the ideas of Epicurus, in his aver- 
sion to the labours of learning, as well as his aevotion to 
voluptuousness. Jlxa-av ■zsxtotiu.v ftxxxpioi ^suysTE, said 
the philosopher of the garden in a letter to Pythocles 

Teach me this, and let me twine 

My arms around the nymph divine.'] By %pu<r>is A$po- 
Snvig here, I understand some beautiful girl ; in the same 
manner thatAu<*fo; is often used for wine. " Golden" is 
frequently an epithet of beauty. Thus in Virgil, " Venus 
aurea;" and in Propertius, "Cynthia aurea." Tibullus, 
however, calls an old woman " golden." 

The translation d'Autori Anonimi, as usual, wantons 
on this passage of Anacreon: 

E m' insegni con pifi rare 
Forme accorte' d' involare 
Ad amabile beltade 
II bel cinto d' nncstade. 

Jind there* s an end — for ah! you know. 
They drink but little wine below!] Thus tfto wkty 
Mainard : 



260 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Memory wakes her tragic trance, 

And wings me lightly through the dance. 

Come, Cybeba, smiling maid ! 

Cull the flower and twine the braid , 

Bid the blush of summer's rose 

Burn upon my brow of snows ; 

And let me, while the wild and young 

Trip the mazy dance along, 

Fling my heap of years away, 

And be as wild, as young as they. 

Hither haste, some cordial soul ! 

Give my lips the brimming bowl ; 

Oh ! you will see this hoary sage 

Forget his locks, forget his age. 

He still can chaunt the festive hymn, 

He still can kiss the goblet's brim ; 

He still can act the mellow raver, 

And play the fool as sweet as ever ' 



ODE LEW 

Metkinks, the pictured bull we see 
Is amorous Jove — it must be he ! 
How fond'y blest he seems to bear 
That fairest of Phoenician fair ! 
How proud he breasts the foamy tide, 
And spurns the billowy surge aside 1 
Could any beast of vulgar vein 
Undaunted thus defy the main ? 



La Mort nous guette ; et quand ses lois 
Nous ont enfermes une fois 
Au sein d' une fosse profonde, 
Adieu bons vins et bons repas, 
Ma science ne trouve pas 
Dei cabarets en l'autre monde. 

From Mainard, Gombauld, and De Cailly, old French 
Doets, some of the best epigrams of the English language 
are borrowed. 

Bid the blush of summer's rose 

Burn upon my brow of snows, etc.] Licetus, in hisHie- 
roglyphica, quoting two of our poet's odes, where he calls 
for garlands, remarks, "Constat igiturfloreas coronas poetis 
et potantibus in symposio convenire, non autem sapientibus 
et philosophiam affectantibus." " It appears that wreaths 
of flowers were adapted for poets and revellers at banquets, 
but by no means became those who had pretensions to 
wisdom and philosophy." On this principle, in his 152d 
chapter, he discovers a refinement in Virgil, describing the 
garland of th» poet Silenus as fallen off; which distin- 
guishes, lie thinks, the divine intoxication of Silenus from 
that of common drunkards, who always wear their crowns 
while they drink. This, indeed, is the " labor ineptiarum" 
of commentators. 

He still can kiss the goblcfs brim, etc.] Wine is pre- 
scribed by Galen as an excellent medicine for old men : 
" Quod frigidos et humoribus expletos calefaciat," etc. ; 
but Nature was Anacreon's physician. 

There is a proverb in Eriphus, as quoted by Athenoeus, 
which says, " that wine makes an old man dance, whether 
he will or not." 

Aoyog £<tt' sep%«»o$, ov xxx»{ £%«>«', 
Oivov Keyovo-i touj ytpovrxg^ u> -axreff 

1 " This ode is written upon a picture which represented 
the rape of Europa." — Madame Dacier. 

It may perhaps be considered as a description of one of 
those coins, which the Sidonians struck off in honour of 
Europa, representing a woman carried across the sea by a 
bull. Thus Natalis Comes, lib. viii. cap. 23. " Sidonii nu- 
mismata cum foemin?. auri dorso insid>mte ac mare trans- 
freiant", cuderunt in sius honorem." In the little treatise 
upon the goddess of fcyna, attributed very falsely to Lucian, 



No : he descends from climes above, 
He looks the God, he breathes of Jove ! 



ODE LV. 1 

While we invoke the wreathed spring, 
Resplendent rose ! to thee we '11 sing ; 
Resplendent rose ! the flower of flowers, 
Whose breath perfumes Olympus' bowers 
Whose virgin blush, of chasten'd dye, 
Enchants so much our mortal eye. 
When Pleasure's bloomy season glows, 
The Graces love to twine the rose ; 
The rose is warm Dione's bliss, 
And flushes like Dione's kiss ! 
Oft has the poet's magic tongue 
The rose's fair luxuriance sung; 



there is mention of this coin, and of a temple dedicated b» 
the Sidonians to Astarte, whom some, it appears, confound 
ed with Europa. 

Moschus has written a very beautiful idyl on the story of 
Europa. 

JVb .* he descends from climes above, 

He looks the God, he breathes of Jove.] Thus Moschus 



JUpvtyi Sic 



Tpr^/E Se/txg' ; 



nj/s .jeov xxi xptys oiftxf x«i ytviro Taupoj 

The God forgot himself, his heaven for love, 
And a bull's form belied the almighty Jove. 

1 This ode is a brilliant panegyric on the rose. " All an- 
tiquity (says Barnes) has produced nothing more beautiful." 

From the idea of peculiar excellence which the ancienta 
attached to this flower, arose a pretty proverbial expression 
used by Aristophanes, according to Suidas, poSx /*' sipuxaj 
"You have spoken roses," a phrase somewhat similar to 
the "dire des fleurettes" of the French. In the same idea 
of excellence originated, I doubt not, a very curious appli 
cation of the word poSov, for which the inquisitive readei 
may consult Gaulminus upon the epithalamium of our poet, 
where it is introduced in the romance of Theodoras. Mure- 
tus, in one of his elegies, calls his mistress his rose : 

Jam te igitur rursus teneo, formosula, jam te 
(Quid trepidas 1) teneo ; jam, rosa, te teneo. 

Eleg. 8. 
Now I again embrace thee, dearest, 
(Tell me, wanton, why thou fearest?) 
Again my longing arms infold thee, 
Again, my rose, again I hold thee. 
This, like most of the terms of endearment in the moderx 
Latin poets, is taken from Plautus ; they were vulgar antf 
colloquial in his time, and they are among the eleganciei 
of the modern Latinists. 

Passeratius alludes to the ode before us, in the beginning 
of his poem on the Rose : 

Carmine digna rosa est ; vellem caneretur ut illam 
Teius arguta cecinit testudine vates. 

Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing.] I have passed 
over the line <rw srxipn auj-st /nKyrnv ; it is corrupt in this 
original reading, and has been very little improved by the 
annotators. I should suppose it to be an interpolation, if it 
were not for a line which occurs afterwards . qipi $n $ uo-iv 
\sywfnv. 

The rose is warm Dione's bliss, etc.] Bclleau, in a note 
upon an old French poet, quoting the original here «?pc5»- 
0-i.uv t' aS'ip^*, translates it, " comme les deliees et miguar- 
dises de Venus." 

Oft has the poet's magic tongue 

The rose's fair luxuriance sung, etc.] The following is 
a fragment of the Lesbian poetess. It is cited in the ro- 
mance of Achilles Tatius, who appears to have resolved 
the numbers into prose. E* to«$ xv6ea■^v xjjXsv o Zeu« 
nrifaivxi iZxcrikex, to poSov xv Twv xviiwv sZxriKivs, yyjg 
*o~r« xooytos, cpvrwv xyhxirr/ux, as5xK,uag xvSsjiv, Klifiovog 
BpvSqfAX) xxKKog x<rTpx7TT0v. EpuTos zrvn, AspoStTtit 
•urpo^si/ei, tusiJto-i QuKKoig xo/xx, tv*iivr,T3ii TjtT*hoil 

Tpu^/». TO TTtTXXOV TO Zs^opcu ysKX 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



261 



And long the Muses, heavenly maids, 
Have rear'd it in their tuneful shades. 
When, at the early glance of morn, 
It sleeps upon the glittering thorn, 
'T is sweet to dare the tangled fence, 
To cull the timid flow'ret thence, 
And wipe, with tender hand, away 
The tear that (in its blushes lay ! 
'T is sweet to hold the infant stems, 
Yet dropping with Aurora's gems, 
And fresh inhale the spicy sighs 
That from the weeping buds arise. 
When revel reigns, when mirth is high, 
And Bacchus beams in every eye, 
Our rosy fillets scent exhale, 
And fill with balm the fainting gale! 
Oh, there is nought in nature bright, 
Where roses do not shed their light ! 
When morning paints the orient skies, 
Her fingers burn with roseate dyes ; 
The nymphs display the rose's charms, 
It mantles o'er their graceful arms ; 
Through Cytherea's form it glows, 
And mingles with the living snows. 
The rose distils a healing balm, 
The beating pulse of pain to calm ; 
Preserves the cold inurned clay, 
And mocks the vestige of decay : 



If Jove would give the leafy bowers 
A queen for all their world of flowers, 
The rose would be the choice of Jove 
And blush the queen of every grove. 
Sweetest child of weeping morning, 
Gem, the vest of earth adorning, 
Eye of flow'rets, glow of lawns, 
Bud of beauty nursed by dawns: 
Soft the soul of love it breathes, 
Cypria's brow with magic wreathes, 
And, to the Zephyr's warm caresses, 
Diffuses all ils verdant tresses, 
Till, glowing with the wanton's play, 
It blushes a diviner ray! 
TVfien morning paints the orient, skies, 
Her fingers burn with roseat dyes, etc.] In the original 
here, he enumerates the many epithets of beauty, borrowed 
from roses, which were used by the poets, -s-ospa twv <ro<p<av. 
We see that poets were dignified in Greece with the title of 
sages; even the careless Anacreon, who lived but for love 
and voluptuousness, was called by Plato the wise Anacreon. 
Fuit hiDC sapientia quondam. 

Preserves the cold inurned clay, etc.] He here alludes 
to the use of the rose in embalming ; and, perhaps (as Barnes 
thinks,) to the rosy unguent with which Venus anointed the 
corpse of Hector. Homer's Iliad. *[/. It may likewise 
regard ihe ancient practice of putting garlands of roses on 
the dead, as in Statius, Theb. lib. x. 782. 

hi sertis, hi veris honore soluto 

Accumulant artus palriaque in sede reponunt 
Corpus odoratum. 
Where " veris honor," though it mean every kind of flow- 
ers, may seem more particularly to refer to the rose, which 
our poet, in another ode, calls E*po; pthyfix. We read, in 
the Hieroglyphics of Pierius, lib lv. that some of the an- 
cients used to order in their wills, that roses should be an- 
nually scattered on their tombs; and he has adduced some 
sepulchral inscriptions to this purpose. 

Jtnd mocks the vestige of decay.] When he says that 
this flower prevails over time itself, he still alludes to its 
efficacy in embalment (tenera poneret. ossa rosa. Propert. 
lib. i. eleg. 17,) or perhaps to the subsequent idea of its 
fragrance surviving its beauty ; for he can scarcely mean to 
praise for duration the "nimium breves flores" of the rose. 
Philoetratus compares this flower with love, and says, that 
they both defy the influence of time; %povot/ Si oute Epmj, 
o-jTs foSa oiSsv. Unfortunately the similitude lies not in 
their duration, br.c their transience. 



And when, at length, in pale decline, 
Its florid beauties tade and pine, 
Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath 
Diffuses odour e'en in death ! 
Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung? 
Attend — for thus the tale is sung. 
When, humid, from the silvery stream, 
Effusing beauty's warmest beam, 
Venus appear'd, in flushing hues, 
Mellow'd by Ocean's briny dews ; 
When, in the starry courts above, 
The pregnant brain of mighty Jove 
Disclosed the nymph of azure glance, 
The nymph who shakes the martial lance ! 
Then, then, in strange eventful hour, 
The earth produced an infant flower, 
Which sprung, with blushing tinctures.dress'd, 
And wanton'd o'er its parent breast. 
The gods beheld this brilliant birth, 
And hail'd the Rose, the boon of earth ! 
With nectar drops, a ruby tide, 
The sweetly orient buds they dyed, 
And bade them bloom, the flowers divine 
Of him who sheds the teeming vine ; 
And bade them on the spangled thorn 
Expand their bosoms to the morn. 



ODE LVI. 1 

He, who instructs the youthful crew 
To bathe them in the brimmer's dew, 



Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath 
Diffuses odour e'en in death.] Thus Caspar Barlajm, in 
his Ritus Niiptiarum: 

Ambrosium late rosa tunc quoque spargit odorem, 
Cum fluit, aut multo languida sole jacet. 

Nor then the rose its odour loses, 
When all its flushing beauties die; 

Nor less ambrosial balm diffuses, 
When wither' d by the solar eye! 

With nectar drops, a ruby tide, 

The sweetly orient buds they dyed, etc.] The author of 
the "Pervigilium Veneris" (a poem attributed to Catulius, 
the style of which appears to me to have all the laboured 
luxuriance of a much later period) ascribes the tincture of 
the rose to the blood from the wound of Adonis — 



Fuses aprino de cruore — 

according to the emendation of Lipsius. In the following 
epigram this hue is differently accounted for: 

Ilia quidem studiosa suum defendere Adonim, 
Gradivus stricto quern petit, ense fcrex, 

Affixit duris vestigia cavca rosetis, 
Albaque divino picta cruore rosa est. 

While the enamour'd queen of joy 
Flies to protect her lovely boy, 

On whom the jealous war-god rushes; 
She treads upon a thorned rose, 
And while the wound with crimson flows, 

The snowy flowret feels her blood, and blushes! 

1 " Compare with this elegant ode the verses of Uz, lib 
i. die Weinlese." — Degen. 

This appears to be one of the hymns which were sung at 
the anniversary festival of the vintage; one of the £;r»/.nv.o» 
v/tvot, as our poet himself terms them in the fifty-ninth ode 
We cannot help feeling a peculiar veneration for these relics 
of the religion of antiquity. Horace may be supposed to 
e written the nineteenth ode of his second book, and the 
twenty-fifth of the third, for some bacchanalian ceiebrauoc 
of this kind. 



202 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



And taste, uncloy d by rich excesses, 
All the bliss that wine possesses ! 
He, who inspires the youth to glance 
In winged circlets through the dance ! 
Bacchus, the god, again is here, 
And leads along the blushing year ; 
The blushing year with rapture teems, 
Ready to shed those cordial streams 
Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth, 
Illuminate the sons of earth; 
And when the ripe and vermil wine, • 
Sweet infant of the pregnant vine, 
Which now in mellow clusters swells, 
Oli ! when it bursts its rosy cells, 
The heavenly stream shall mantling flow, 
To balsam every mortal woe ! 
No youth shall then be wan or weak, 
For dimpling health shall light the cheek; 
No heart shall then desponding sigh, 
For wine shall bid despondence fly ! 
Thus — till another autumn's glow 
Shall bid another vintage flow ! 



ODE LVII. 1 

And whose immortal hand could shed 
Upon this disk the ocean's bed? 
And, in a frenzied flight of soul, 
Sublime as Heaven's eternal pole, 
Imagine thus, in semblance warm, 
The Queen of Love's voluptuous form, 
Floating along the silvery sea 
In beauty's naked majesty ? 
Oh ! he has given the raptured sight 
A witching banquet of delight ; 
And all those sacred scenes of Love, 
Where only hallowed eyes may rove, 



Which, sparkling- in the, cup of mirth, 

Illuminate the sons of earth!] In the original •ztotov 
u-ctovov x.oy.i'Z.wv Madame Dacier thinks that the poet 
here had the nepenthe of Homer in his mind. Odyssey, 
,ih. iv. This nepenthe was a something of exquisite charm, 
infused by Helen into the wine of her guests, which had the 
power of dispelling every anxiety. A French writer, with 
very elegant gallantry, conjectures that this spell, which 
made the bowl so beguiling, was the charm of Helen's con- 
versation. See de Mere, quoted by Bayle, art. Helene. 

1 This ode is a very animated description of a picture of 
Venus on a discus, which presented the goddess in her first 
emergence from the waves. About two centuries after our 
poet wrote, the pencil of the artist Apelles embellished this 
subject, in his famous painting of the Venus Anadyomene, 
the model of which, as Pliny informs us, was the beautiful 
Campaspe, given to him by Alexander; though, according 
to Natalis Comes, lib. vii. cap. 16, it wasPhryne who cat to 
Apelles for the face and breast, of this Venus. 

There are a few blemishes in the reading of the ode be- 
fore us, which have influenced Faber, Heyne, Brunck, etc. 
to denounce the whole poem as spurious. Non ego paucis 
offendar maculis. I think it is beautiful enough to be au- 
thentic. 

Jlnil whose immortal hand could shed 

Upon this disk the ocean's bed?} The abruptness of 
spa ri; Topsuo-s -srovTOi/, is finely expressive of sudden 
admiration, and is one of those beauties which we cannot 
but admire in their source, though, by frequent imitation, 
Ihey are now become languid and unimpressive. 

6nd all those sacred scenes of love, 

Where only -hallow d eyes may rone, etc.] The picture 
here has all the delicate character of the semi-redncta Ve- 
na, and is the sweetest emblem of what the poetry of pas- 



Lie faintly glowing, half-conceal'd, 
Within the lucid billows veil'd. 
Light as the leaf that summer's breeze 
Has wafted o'er the glassy seas, 
She floats upon the ocean's breast, 
Which undulates in sleepy rest, 
And stealing on, she gently pillows 
Her bosom on the amorous billows. 
Her bosom, like the humid rose, 
Her neck, like dewy-sparkling snows, 
Illume the liquid path she traces, 
And burn within the stream's embraces! 
In languid luxury soft she glides, 
Encircled by the azure tides, 
Like some fair lily, faint with weeping, 
Upon a bed of violets sleeping ! 
Beneath their queen's inspiring glance, 
The dolphins o'er the green sea dance, 
Bearing in triumph young Desire, 
And baby Love with smiles of fire ! 
While, sparkling on the silver waves, 
The tenants of the briny caves 
Around the pomp in eddies play, 
And gleam along the watery way. 



ODE LVIII. 1 

When gold, as fleet as Zephyr's pinion, 
Escapes like any faithless minion, 
And flies me (as he flies me ever,) 
Do I pursue him ? never, never ! 

sion ought to be; glowing but through a veil, and stealing 
upon the heart from concealment. Few of the ancients 
have attained this modesty of description, which is like the 
golden cloud that hung over Jupiter and Juno, impervious 
to every beam but that of fancy. 

Her bosom, like the humid rose, etc.] " PmSboov (says an 
anonymous annotator) isa whimsical epithet for the bosom." 
Neither Catullus nor Gray have been of his opinion. The 
former has the expression, 

En hie in roseis latet papiilis. 
And the latter, 

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd hours, etc.. 
Crottus, a modern Latinist, might indeed be censured foi 
too vague an use of the epithet "rosy," when he apphe& il 
to the eyes: "e roseis oculis." 

young Desire, etc.] In the original "■lyttspo?, 

who was the same deity with Joeus among the Romans. 
Aurelius Augurellus has a poem beginning 

Invitat olim Bacchus ad ccunani suoa 
Comon, Jocum, Cupidinem. 

Which Parnell has closely imitated: 

Gay Bacchus, liking Fstcourt s wine, 

A nob'.; meal bespoke us; 
And, for the guests that were to dine, 

Brought Comus, Love, and Joeus, etc. 

1 1 have followed Raines's arrangement of this ode; it de- 
viates somewhat from the Vatican MS. but it appeared to 
me the more natural order. 

When gold, as fleet as Zephyr's pinion, 

Escapes like amy faithless, minion, etc.] In the original 
O §p-jt,77tTa,$ o -ycpvtroq. There is a kind of pun in these 
ds, as Madame Dacier has already remarked ; for Chry- 
sos, which signifies gold, was also a frequent name for a 
slave. In one of Lucian!s dialogues, there is, I think, a 
similar play upon the word, where the followers of Chry 
sippus are called golden fishes. The puns of the ancients 
are, in general, even more vapid than our own some ol 
the best, are those recorded of Diogenes. 

Jlnd flics me (as he flies me ever,) etc.] Asi £', «u /M , 
cfsuysj This grace of iteration has already been laken 



O JES OF ANACREON. 



263 



No, let the false deserter go, 
For who would court his direst foe ? 
But, when I feel my lighten'd mind 
No more by ties of gold confined, 
I loosen all my clinging cares, 
And cast them to the vagrant airs. 
Then, then I feel the Muse's spell, 
And wake to life the dulcet shell ; 
The dulcet shell to beauty sings, 
And love dissolves along the strings ! 
Thus, when my heart is sweetly taught 
How little gold deserves a thought, 
The winged slave returns once more, 
And with him wafts delicious store 
Of racy wine, whose balmy ait 
In slumber seals the anxious heart ! 
Again he tries my soul to sever 
From love and song, perhaps for ever ! 
Away, deceiver ! whv pursuing 
Ceaseless thus my heart's undoing ? 
Sweet is the song of amorous fire ; 
Sweet are the sighs that thrill the lyre ; 
Oh ! sweeter far than all the gold 
The waftage of thy wings can hold. 
I well remember all thy wiles ; 
Thy wither'd Cupid's flowery smiles, 
And o'er his harp such garbage shed, 
T thought its angel breath was fled ! 
They tainted all his bowl of blisses, 
His bland desires and hallow'd kisses. 
Oh ! fly to haunts of sordid men, 
But rove not near the bard again ; 
Thy glitter in the Muse's shade 
Scares from her bower the tuneful maid ; 
And not for worlds would I forego 
That moment of poetic glow, 
When my full soul, in Fancy's stream, 
Pours o'er the lyre its swelling theme. 
Away, away ! to worldlings hence, 
Who feel not this diviner sense, 
And, with thy gay fallacious blaze, 
Dazzle their unrefined gaze. 



notice of. Though sometimes merely a playful beauty, it is 
peculiarly expressive of impassioned sentiment, and we may 
easily believe that it was one of the many sources of that 
energetic sensibility which breathed through the style of 
Sanpho. See Gyrald. Vet. Poet. Dial. 9. "it will not be 
said that this is a mechanical ornament by any one who can 
feel its charm in those lines of Catullus, where he complains 
of the infidelity of his mistress, Leshia. 

Cceli, Lesbia nostra, Lesbia ilia, 

Ilia Lesbia, quam Catullus unam, 

Flus quam se atque suos amavit omneg, 

JVunc, etc. 
Si sic onnia dixisset! but the rest does not bear citation. 

They tainted all his bowl of blisses, 

His bland desires and hallow'd kisses.] Original : 

C>iA.))iUXTcuv Ss xsSvjjv, 

IIo3.in- KwriKKx, x.ipvq(. 

Horace has " Desiderique temperare poculum," not figu 
ratively, however, like Anacreon, but importing the love- 
philtres of the witches. By " cups of kisses" our poet may 
allude to a favourite gallantry among the ancients, of drink- 
ing when the lips of their mistresses had touched the brim: 

" Or leave a kiss within the cup, 

And I 'II not ask for wine," 
asinBen Jonson's translation from Philostralus; andLucian 
has a conceit upon the same idea, " lv» x»i -zriv/f »/t* xa< 
pix>is " " that you may at once both drink and kiss." 



ODE LIX. 1 

Sablkd by the solar beam, 
Now the fiery clusters teem, 
In osier baskets, borne along 
By all the festal vintage throng 
Of rosy youths and virgins fair, 
Ripe as the melting fruits they bear. 
Now, now they press the pregnant grapes, 
And now the captive stream escapes, 
In fervid tide of nectar gushing, 
And for its bondage proudly blushing ! 
While, round the vat's impurpled brim, 
The choral song, the vintage hymn 
Of rosy youths, and virgins fair, 
Steals on the cloy'd and panting air. 
Mark, how they drink, with all their e}-es, 
The orient tide that sparkling flies ; 
The infant balm of all their fears, 
The infant Bacchus, born in tears ! 
When he, whose verging years decline 
As deep into the vale as mine, 
When he inhales the vintage-spring, 
His heart is fire, his foot 's a wing ; 
And, as he flies, his hoary hair 
Plays truant with the wanton air ! 
While the warm youth, whose wishing soul 
■ Has kindled o'er the inspiring bowl, 
Impassion'd seeks the shadowy grove, 
Where, in the tempting guise of love, 
Reclining sleeps some witching maid, 
Whose sunny charms, but half display'd, 
Blush through the bower, that, closely twined, 
Excludes the kisses of the wind ! 
The virgin wakes, the glowing boy 
Allures her to the embrace of joy ; 
Swears that the herbage Heaven had spread 
Was sacred as the nuptial bed ; 
That laws should never bind desire, 
And love was nature's holiest fire ! 
The virgin weeps, the virgin sighs ; 
He kiss'd her lips, he kiss'd her eyes ; 
The sigh was balm, the tear was dew, 
They only raised his flame anew. 
And, oh ! he stole the sweetest flower 
That ever bloom'd in any bower ! 

Such is the madness wine imparts, 
Whene'er it steals on youthful hearts. 



1 The title EsriXifvios u^vos, which Barnes has given to 
this ode, is by no means appropriate. We have ahead* 
had one of those hymns (ode 5b",) but this is a description u» 
the vintage; and the title =»s o»vov, which it bears in the Vati- 
can MS., is more correct than any that have been suggested. 

Degen, in the true spirit of literary scepticism, doubts that 
this ode is genuine, without assigning any reason for such a 
suspicion. " Non amo te, Sabidi, nee possum dicere quare," 
but this is far from satisfactory criticism. 

Swears that the herbage Heaven had. spread, 

Was sacred as the nuptial bed, etc.] The original here 
has hern variously interpreted. Some, in their zeal for our 
author's purity, have supposed that the youth only persuade? 
her to a premature marriage. Others understand from the 
words -zrpoSoTiv yxfiuv yevecrfisei, that he seduces her to a 
violation of the nuptial vow. The turn which I have given 
it is somewhat like the sentiment of Helo'isa, "amorem con 
jugio, libertatem vinculo pra-ferre." (See her original Let 
ters.) The Italian translations have almost ail wantoned 
upon this description : but that of Marchetti is indeed " n* 
mium lubricus asoici." 



26 t 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



ODE LX.» 

Awake to life, my dulcet shell, 
To Phoebus all thy sighs shall swell ; 
And though no glorious prize be thine, 
No Pythian wreath around thee twine, 
Yet every hour is glory's hour, 
To him who gathers wisdom's flower ! 
Then wake thee from thy magic slumbers, 
Breathe to the soft and Phrygian numbers, 
Which, as my trembling lips repeat, 
Thy chords shall echo back as sweet. 
The cygnet thus, with fading notes, 
As down Cayster's tide he floats, 
Plays with his snowy plumage fa\r 
Upon the wanton murmuring air, 
Which amorously lingers round, 
And sighs responsive sound for sound ! 
Muse of the Lyre ! illume my dream, 
Thy Phoebus is my fancy's theme ; 
And hallow'd is the harp I bear, 
And hallow'd is the wreath I wear, 
Hallow'd by him, the god of lays, 
Who modulates the choral maze ! 
I sing the love which Daphne twined 
Around the godhead's yielding mind ; 
I sing the blushing Daphne's flight 
From this sethereal youth of light ; 
And how the tender, timid maid 
Flew panting to the kindly shade, 
Resign'd a form, too tempting fair, 
And grew a verdant laurel there ; 
Whose leaves, in sympathetic thrill, 
In terror seem'd to tremble still ! 
The god pursued, with wing'd desire ; 
And when his hopes were all on fire, 
And when he thought to hear the sigh 
With which enamour'd virgins die, 
He only heard the pensive air 
Whispering amid her leafy hair ! 
But oh, my soul ! no more — no more ! 
Enthusiast, whither do I soar ? 
This sweetly maddening dream of soul 
Has hurried me beyond the goal. 
Why should I sing the mighty darts 
Which fly to wound celestial hearts, 



1 This hymn to Apollo is supposed not to have been 
written by Anacreon, and it certainly is rather a sublimer 
flight than the Toian wing is accustomed to soar. But we 
ought not to judge from this diversity of style, in a poet of 
whom lime has preserved such partial relics. If we knew 
Horace but as a satirist, should we easily believe there could 
dwell such animation in his lyre? Suidas says that our 
poet wrote hymn™, and this perhaps is one of them. We 
can perceive in wnat an altered and imperfect state his 
works are at present, when we find a scholiast upon Horace 
siting an ode from the third book of Anacreon. 

Jivd how the tender, timid maid 

Flew panting to the kindly shade, etc.] Original: 

TO /£IV SXTTlCpiWyl XSVTf>0V 9 

<t'uo-£u>s £' ciftaye (top'jviv. 

J find the wordxsvTpov here has a double force, as it also 
signifies that "omnium parentem, quam sauctus Numa," 
etc. etc. (See Martial.) In order to confirm this import of 
the word here, those who are curious in new readings may 
place the stop after $v<re<os thus: 



When sure the lay, with sweeter tone, 
Can tell the darts that wound my own 1 
Still be Anacreon, still inspire 
The descant of the Teian lyre : 
Still let the nectar'd numbers float, 
Distilling love in every note ! 
And when the vouth, whose burning soul 
Has felt the Paphian star's control, 
When he the liquid lays shall hear, 
His heart will flutter to his ear, 
And drinking there of song divine, 
Banquet on intellectual wine ! 



ODE LXI. 1 

Golden hues of youth are fled ; 
Hoary locks deform my head. 
Bloomy graces, dalliance gay, 
All the flowers of life decay 



TO yUEV i 



x-scei 



yi »£i'rpoi 



Still be JJnacreon, still inspire 

The descant of the Teian lyre.] The original is Tov Avu. 
xpzovTx f* t y.ov. I have translated it under the supposition 
that the hymn is by Anacreon ; though I fear, from this very 
line, that his claim to it can scarce be supported. 

Tov Avzx.peovTx fn/tov, " Imitate Anacreon." Such is 
the lesson given us by the lyrist; and if, in poetry, a simple 
elegance of sentiment, enriched by the most playful felicities 
of fancy, be a charm which invites or deserves imitation, 
where shall we find such a guide as Anacreon ? In morality, 
too, with some little reserve, I think we m ght not blush to 
follow in his footsteps. For if his song be the language of 
his heart, though luxurious and relaxed, he was artless and 
benevolent; and who would not forgive a few irregularities, 
when atoned for by virtues so rare and so endearing 1 When 
we think of the sentiment in those lines . 
Away ! I hate the slanderous dart, 
Which steals to wound the unwary heart, 
how many are there in the world to whom we would wish 
to say, Tov Avoexptoi/Ta /uiftov ! 

Here ends the last of the odes in the Vatican MS. whose 
authority confirms the genuine antiquity of them all, though 
a few have stolen among the number which we may hesi- 
tate in attributing to Anacreon. In the little essay prefixed 
to this translation, I observed that Barnes had quoted this 
manuscript incorrectly, relying upon an imperfect copy of it, 
which Isaac Vossius had taken ; I shall just mention two or 
three instances of this inaccuracy, the first which occur to me. 
In the ode of the Dove, on the words ITTspcio-i o-uyxk^u^io, 
he says, " Vatican MS. c-va-/.iv,'C<j>v, etian: Presciano invito," 
though the MS. reads o-vi<x«x.vyiu, with <ruo-xiao-co interlined. 
Degen, too, on the same line, is somewhat in error. In the 
twenty-second ode of this series, line thirteenth, the MS has 
tsviyi with ai interlined, and Barnes imputes to it the read- 
ing of tskoV In the fifty-seventh, line twelfth, he professes 
to have preserved the reading of the MS. Akzkvjfisvq S f nr' 
«ut>), while the latter has ctkx\viuivoq 5' est' «ut*. Almost 
all the other annotators have transplanted these errors from 
Barnes. 

1 The intrusion of this melancholy ode among the care- 
less levities of our poet, has always reminded me of the 
skeletons which the Egyptians used to hang up in their 
banquet-rooms, to inculcate a thought of mortality even 
amidst the dissipations of mirth. If it were not for the beauty 
of its numbers, the Teian Muse should disown this ode. 
Quid habet illius, illius qure spirabat amores? 

To Stnbaeus we are indebted for it. 

Bloomy graces, dalliance gay, 

Jill the flowers of life decay.] Horace often, with feeling 
and elegance, deplores the fugacity of human enjoyments 
See book ii. ode 11 ; and thus in the second epistle, book ii 

Singula de nobis anni pr&dantur euntes, 
Eiipuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ludum. 

The wing of every passing day 
Withers some blooming joy away , 
And wafts from our enamour'd arms 
The banquet's mirth, the virgin's cnarms. 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



265 



Withering age begins to trace 
Saa memorials o'er my face ; 
Time has shed its sweetest bloom, 
All the future must be gloom ! 
This awakes my hourly sighing; 
Dreary is the thought of dying! 
Pluto's is a dark abode, 
Sad the journey, sad the road: 
And, the gloomy travel o'er, 
All ! we can return no more ! 



ODE LXII. 1 

Filt. me, boy, as deep a draught 

As e'er was filled, as e'er was quaff'd ; 

But let the water amply flow, 

To cool the grape's intemperate glow ; 

Let not the fiery god be single, 

But with the nymphs in union mingle ; 

For, though the bowl's the grave of sadness, 

Oh ! be it ne'er the birth of madness ! 

No, banish from our board to-night 

The revelries of rude delight ! 

To Scythians leave these wild excesses, 

Ours be the joy that soothes and blesses ! 

And while the temperate bowl we wreathe, 

Our choral hymns shall sweetly breathe, 

Beguiling every hour along 

With harmony of soul and song ! 



Dreary is the thought of dying, etc] Regnier, a liber- 
tine French poet, has written some sonnets on the approach 
of death, full of gloomy and trembling repentance. Chau- 
lieu, however, supports more consistently the spirit of the 
Epicurean philosopher. See his poem, addressed to the 
Marquis La Fane. 

Plusj' approche du terme et moins je le redoute, etc. 

I shall leave it to the moralist to make his reflections here : 
it is impossible to be very anacreontic on such a subject. 

Jlnd, the gloomy travel o'er, 

Jlh! K* can return no more!] Scaliger, upon Cafullus's 
well-known lines, " Qui nunc it per iter," etc. remarks, tbat 
Acheron, with the same idea, is called *vt%o$o{ f by Theo 
Cntus, and £uo-£xdpo/*os by JNicander. 

1 This ode consists of two fragments, which are to be 
found in Alheiueus, book x. and which Barnes, from the 
similarity of their tendency, has combined into one. 1 
think ihis a very justifiable liberty, and have adopted it in 
Borne other fragments of our poet. 

Degen refers us here to verses of Uz, lib. iv. der Trinker. 

But let the water amply flow, 

To conl the grape's intemperate glow, etc.] It was 
Amphictyon who first taught the Greeks to mix water with 
their wine ; in commemoration of which circumstance they 
erected altars to Bacchus and the nymphs. On this mytho- 
logical allegory the following epigram is founded: 

Ardentem ex utero Semeleslavere Lyaeum 

Naiades, extincto fulminis igne sacri ; 
Cum nymphis igitui traetabilis, at sine nymphis 
Candenti rursus fulmine corripitur. 

J'icrius Valerianus. 

*Vhich is, non verbum verbo, 

While heavenly fire consumed nis Theban dame, 
A Naiad caught young Bacchus from the Same, 

And dipp'd him burning in her purest lymph: 
Still, still he loves the Bea-maid's crystal urn, 
And when his native flies infuriate burn, 

He bathes him in 'ne fountain of the nymph. 
2L 



ODE LXIII. 1 

To Love, the soft and blooming child 

I touch the harp in descant wild ; 

To Love, the babe of Cyprian bowers, 

The hoy, who breathes and blushes flowers' 

To Love, for heaven and earth adore him, 

And gods and mortals bow before him ! 



ODE LXIV. 2 

Haste thee, nymph, whose winged spear 
Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer ! 
Dian, Jove's immortal child, 
Huntress of the savage wild ! 
Goddess with the sun-bright hair ! 
Listen to a people's prayer. 
Turn, to Lethe's river turn, 
There thy vanquish'd people mourn ! 
Come to Lethe's wavy shore, 
There thy people's peace restore. 
Thine their hearts, their altars thine ; 
Dian ! must they — must they pine ? 



ODE LXV. 3 
Like some wanton filly sporting, 
Maid of Thrace ! thou Hy'st my courting. 
Wanton filly ! tell me why 
Thou trip'st away, with scornful eye, 
And seem'st to think my doting heart 
Is novice in the bridling art ? 
Believe me, girl, it is not so ; 
Thou'lt find this skilful hand can throw 
The reins upon tbat tender form, 
However wild, however warm ! 



1 "This fragment is preserved in Clemens Alexandrinus, 
Strom, lib. vi. and in Arsenius, Collect. Gra;c." — Barnes. 

Jt appears to have been the opening of a hymn in pry ; se 
of Love. 

2 This hymn to Diana is extant in Hephrestion. There ia 
an anecdote of our poet, which has led to some doubt whe- 
ther ho ever wrote any odes of this kind. It is related by 
the Scholiast upon Pindar (Isthmionic. od. ii. v. 1. as cited 
by Barnes.) Anacreon being asked, why he addressed all 
his hymns to women, and none to the deities ? answered, 
"Because women are my deities." 

I have assumed the same liberty in reporting this anecdote 
which I have done in translating some of the odes ; and it 
were to be wished that these liitle infidelities wete always 
considered pardonable in the interpretation of the ancients; 
thus, when nature is forgotten in the original, in the trans- 
lation, " tamen usque recurret." 

Turn, to Lethe's river turn, 

There thy vanquish' d people mourn!] Lethe, a i.'ver 
of Ionia, according to Strabo, falling into the Meander; 
near to it was situated the town Magnesia, in favour of 
whose inhabitants our poet is supposed to have addressed 
this supplication to Diana. It was written (ad Madame 
Dacier conjectures) on the occasion of some battle, in winch 
the Magnesians had been defeated. 

3 This ode, which is addressed to some Thracian gn s 
exists in Hcraclides, and has been imitated very frequently 
by Horace, as all the annotators have remarked. Madame 
Dacier rejects the allegory, which runs so obviously througn 
out it, and supposes it to have been addressed to a youii£ 
mare belonging to Polycrates : there is more modesty than 
ingenuity in the lady's conjecture. 

Pierius, in the fourth book of his Hieroglyphics, cites this 
ode, and informs us, that the horse was the hieroglypjiica 
emblem of pride. 



266 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Thou'lt own that I can tame thy force, 
And turn and wind thee in the course. 
Though wasting now thy careless hours, 
Thou sport'st amid the herbs and flowers, 
Thou soon shalt feel the rein's control, 
And tremble at the wish'd-for goal ! 



ODE LXVI. 1 

To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine, 
Fairest of all that fairest shine ; 
To thee, thou blushing young Desire, 
Who rulest the world with darts of fire! 
And oh! thou nuptial Power, to thee 
Who bear'st of life the guardian key ; 
Breathing my soul in fragrant praise, 
And weaving wild my votive lays, 
For thee, O Queen ! I wake the lyre, 
For thee, thou blushing young Desire ! 
And oh ! for thee, thou nuptial Power, 
Come, and illume this genial hour. 
Look on thy bride, luxuriant boy ! 
And while thy lambent glance of joy 
Plays over all her blushing charms, 
Delay not, snatch her to thine arms, 
Before the lovely, trembling prey, 
Like a young birdling, wing away ! 
Oh ' Stratocles, impassion'd youth ! 
Dear to the Queen of amorous truth, 
And dear to her, whose yielding zone 
Will soon resign her all thine own ; 
Turn to Myrilla, turn thine eye, 
Breathe to Myrilla, breathe thy sigh ! 
To those bewitching beauties turn ; 
For thee they mantle, flush, and burn ! 
Not more the rose, the queen of flowers, 
Outblushes all the glow of bowers, 
Than she unrivall'd bloom discloses, 
The sweetest rose, where all are roses ! 
Oh ! may the sun, benignant, shed 
His blandest influence o'er thy bed ; 
And foster there an infant tree, 
To blush like her, and bloom like thee ! 



1 This ode is introduced in the Romance of Theodorus 
Proiromus, and is that kind of epithalamium which was 
6ung like a scholium at the nuptial banquet. 

Among the many works of the impassioned Sappho, of 
which time and ignorant superstition have deprived us, the 
loss of her epithalamiums is not one of the least that we de- 
plore. A subject so interesting to an amorous fancy was 
warmly felt, and must have been warmly described, by such 
a soul and such an imagination. The following lines are 
cited as a relic of one of her epithalamiums: 

O^Sis yct/n&pe. <ro» y.iv $y yoi.ju.og ojj apao, 
E/.-rjT«Aso-r', i%H( Si 'srxpitvov av ocpao. 

&je Scaliger, in his Poetics, on the Epithalamium. 

Jind foster there an infant tree, 

To blush like, hrr, and bloom like thee!] Original Kujj-*- 
^»TTOf Se vscpvuot <rsu £v« x^ttco. Passeratius,. upon the 
words "cum caslum amisit florem," in the nuptial song of 
Catullus, after explaining "flos," in somewhat a similar 
sense to that whjch Gaulminus attributes to poSov, says, 
" Hortum quoque vocant in quo flos ille carpitur, et Graecis 

XljTTOV £(TTi TO ££sjSa»ov yVVXIX'jOV. 

May [ remark, that the author of the Greek version of this 
charming ode of Catullus has neglected a most striking and 
anacreontic beauty in those verses, " Ut flos in seplis," etc. 
which is the repetition of the line, "Multi ilium pueri, 
i»ul'.a> optavere puellse," with the slight alteration of nulli 



ODE ^XVIL' 

Gentle youth ! whose looks assume 
Such a soft and girlish bloom, 
Why repulsive, why refuse 
The friendship which my heart pursues j 
Thou little know'st the fond control 
With which thy virtue reins my soul ! 
Then smile not on my locks of gray, 
Believe me oft with converse gay ; 
I've chain'd the years of tender age, 
And boys have loved the prattling sage ' 
For mine is many a soothing pleasure, 
And mine is many a soothing measure ; 
And much I hate the beamless mind, 
Whose earthly vision, unrefined, 
Nature has never formed to see 
The beauties of simplicity ! 
Simplicity, the flower of heaven, 
To souls elect, by Nature given I 



ODE LXVIII. 2 

Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn 
The stream of Amalthea's horn ! 
Nor should I ask to call the throne 
Of the Tartessian prince my own ; 
To totter through his train of years, 
The victim of declining fears. 
One little hour of joy to me 
Is worth a dull eternity ! 



ODE LXIX. 3 

Now Neptune's sullen mouth appears, 
The angry night-cloud swells with tears ; 
And savage storms, infuriate driven, 
Fly howling in the face of heaven ! 
Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom 
With roseate rays of wine illume. 



and nuliae, Catullus himself, however, has been equally 
injudicious in his version of the famous ode of Sappho; he 
has translated yt\wo-xs i/tspoiv, but takes no notice of ccSv 
cp 'jovouo-aj. Horace has caught the spirit of it more faith- 
fully : 

Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo, 
Dulce loquentem. 

1 I have formed this poem of three or four different frag- 
ments, which is a liberty that perhaps may be jusiified by 
the example of Barnes, who has thus compiled the fifty- 
seventh of his edition, and the little ode beginning <?*p' uJcwp, 
<f>sp' ojvov, a> -=ra», which he lias subjoined to the. epigrams. 

The fragments combined in this ode, are the sixty-seventh, 
ninety-sixth, ninety-seventh, and hundredth of Barnes'i 
edition, to which I refer the reader for the names of tha 
authors by whom they are preserved. 

Jind boys have loved the prattling- sage!} Monsieur 
Chaulieu has given a very amiable idea of an old man's in 
tercourse with youth: 

Que cherche par les jeunes gens, 
Pour leurs erreurs plein d'indulgence, 
Je tolere leur imprudence 
En faveur de leurs agremens. 

2 This fragment is preserved in the third book of Strabo. 
Of the Tartessian -prince my own.] He here alludes to 

Arganthonius, who lived, according to Lucian, a hundred 
and fifty years; and reigned, according to Herodotus, 
eighty. See Barnes. 

3 This is composed of two fragments; the seventieth and 
eighty-first in Barnes. Thev are both found in Eustathius 



ODES OF ANACREON 



267 



And while our wreaths of parsley spread 
Their fadeless foliage round our head, 
We '11 hvmn the almighty power of wine, 
And shed libations on his shrine ! 



ODE LXX 1 . 

They wove the lotus band, to deck 
And fan with pensile wreath their neck 
And every guest, to shade his head^ 
Three little breathing chaplets spread ; 
And one was of Egyptian leaf, 
The rest were roses, fair and brief! 
While from a golden vase profound, 
To all on flowery beds around, 
A goblet-nymph, of heavenly shape, 
Pouc'd the rich weepings of the grape ! 



ODE LXXI. 2 

A broken cake, with honey sweet, 
Is all my spare and simple treat ; 
And while -a generous bowl I crown, 
To float my little banquet down, 
I take the soft, the amorous lyre, 
And sing of love's delicious fire ! 
In mirthful measures, warm and free, 
I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee ! 



ODE LXXII. 3 

With twenty chords my lyre is hung, 

And while I wake them all for thee, 
Thou, O virgin ! wild and young, 

Disport' st in airy levity. 
The nursling fawn, that in some shade 

Its antler'd mother leaves behind, 
Is not more wantonly afraid, 

More timid of the rustling wind ! 

1 Three fragments form this tittle ode, all of which are 
preserved in Athenceus. They are the eighty-second, seven- 
ty-fifth, and eighty-third, in Barnes. 

Jlnil every guest, to shade his head, 

Three little breathing chaplets spread.] Longepierre, to 
give an idea of ihe luxurious estimation in which garlands 
wore held by the ancients, relates an anecdote of a courte- 
zan, who, in order to gratify three lovers, without leaving 
cause for jealousy with any of them, gave a kiss to one, let 
the other drink after her, and put a garland on the brow of 
the third ; so that each was satisfied with his favour, and 
Haltered himself with the preference. 

This circumstance is extremely like the subject of one of 
the tensons of Savari de Mauleon, a troubadour. See l'His- 
toire Litteraire des Troubadours. The recital is a curious 
picture of the puerile gallantries of chivalry. 

2 This poem is compiled by Haines, from Athenaeus, 
Hephseslmn, ami Arsenius. See Barnes, 80th. 

3 This I have formed from the eighty-fourth and eighty- 
fifih of Barnes's edition. The two fragments are found in 
Athenreus. 

The nursling fawn, that in some shade 

Its antler'd mother leaves behind, etc.] In the original: 

AwoXEicpSsi; ujro ,«>)TpO£. 
'' Horned" here, undoubtedly, seems a strange epithet: 
Madame Dacier, however, observes, that Sophocles, Calli- 
mnchus, etc. have all applied it in the very same manner, 
nnd she seems to a^ree in the conjecture of the scholiast 
jpon Pindar, that perhaps horns are not always peculiar to 
Ihe miles. I think we may with more ease conclude it to 
he a license of the ooet, " jussit habere pueilam cornua." 



ODE LXXIII. 1 

Fare thee well, perfidious maid ! 
My soul, too long on earth delay'd, 
Delay'd, perfidious girl ! by thee, 
Is now on wing for liberty. 
I fly to seek a kindlier sphere, 
Since thou hast ceased to love me here 



ODE LXXIV. 2 

I bloom'd, awhile, a happy flower, 
Till Love approach'd, one fatal hour, 
And made my tender branches feel 
The wounds of his avenging steel. 
Then, then I feel like some poor willow 
That tosses on the wintry billow ! 



ODE LXXV. 3 

Monarch Love ! resistless boy, 
With whom the rosy Queen of Joy, 
And nymphs, that glance ethereal blue, 
Disporting tread the mountain-dew i 
Propitious, oh ! receive my sighs, 
Which, burning with entreaty, rise ; 
That thou wilt whisper, to the breast 
Of her I love, thy soft behest ; 
And counsel her to learn from thee 
The lesson thou hast taught to me. 
Ah ! if my heart no flattery tell, 
Thou 'It own I 've learn'd that lesson well ! 



ODE LXXVL 4 

Spirit of Love ! whose tresses shine 
Along the breeze,. in golden twine, 



1 This fragment is preserved by the scholiast upon Aristo- 
phanes, and is the eighty-seventh in Barnes. 

2 This is to be found in Hephaeston, and in the eighty-ninth 
of Barnes's edition. 

I must here apologise for omitting a very considerable 
fragment imputed to our poet, Havo^ £' EuputrvKq jttsXs j, etc. 
which is preserved in the twelfth book of Athenams, and is 
the ninety-first in Barnes. If it was really Anacreon wLo 
wrote it, nil f'uit unquam sic impar sibi. It is in a style of 
gross satire, and is full of expressions which never could be 
gracefully translated. 

3 This fragment is preserved by Dion. — Chrysostom, Orat 
ii. de Regno. See Barnes, 93. 

4 This fragment, which is extant in Athenceus (Barnes, 
101,) is supposed, on the authority of Chairueleon, to have 
been addressed to Sappho. We have also a stanza attri- 
buted to her, which some romancers have supposed to be 
her answer to Anacreon. " Mais par malheur (as Bayle says) 
Sappho vint au moude environ cent ou six vingts ans avan 
Anacreon." Nouvelles de la Rep. des lett. torn. ii. de No- 
vembre, 1684. The following is her fragment, the compli- 
ment of which is very finely imagined; she supposes tliat 
the Muse has dictated the verses of Anacreon: 

Ki<voi/, co %pu<ro3-pot/s Mover', siajo-wsj 
T,«v0i', ex ry,g x.x'KXi-yvi'Ciixog scrSKsig 
T>)'0? %;-'pe*s ov aaSi TBfTrvuig 
Ilpstr/iug ctytzvog. 

Oh Muse! who sitt'st on golden throne, 
Full many a hymn of dulcet, tone 

The Teian sage is ta'ight by theo ; 
But, goddess, from thy throne of gold, 
The sweetest hymn thou 'st ever told, 

He lately learn'd and sang for me . 



268 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Come, within a fragrant cloud, 
Blushing with light, thy votary shroud ; 
And, on those wings that sparkling play, 
Waft, oh ! waft me hence away ! 
Love ! my soul is full of thee, 
Alive to all thy luxury. 
But she, the nymph for whom I g^ow, 
The pretty Lesbian, mocks my woe ; 
Smiles at the hoar and silver'd.hues 
Which Time upon my forehead strews. 
Alas ! I fear she keeps her charms 
In store for younger, happier arms ! 



ODE LXXVII. 1 

Hither, gentle Muse of mine, 
Come and teach thy votary old 

Many a golden hymn divine, 

For the nymph with vest of gold. 

Pretty nymph, of tender age, 
Fair thy silky locks unfold ; 

Listen to a hoary sage, 

Sweetest maid with vest of gold ! 



ODE LXXVIII. 2 

Would that I were a tuneful lyre, 

Of burnish'd ivory fait 
Which in the Dionysian choir 

Some blooming boy should bear ! 

Would that I were a golden vase, 
And then some nymph should hold 

My spotless frame with blushing grace, 
Herself as pure as gold ! 



ODE LXXIX. 3 

When Cupid sees my beard of snow, 
Which blanching time has taught to flow, 
Upon his wing of golden light 
He passes with an eaglet's flight, 
And, flitting: on, he seems to say, 
" Fare thee well, thou 'st had thy day !" 
4 Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray 
Which lightens our meandering way — 
Cupid, within my bosom stealing, 
Excites a strange and mingled feeling, 
Which pleases, though severely teasing, 
And teases, though divinely pleasing ! 



1 This is formed of the 124th and 119th fragments in 
Barnes, both of which are to be found in Scaliger's Poetics. 

Dn I'auw thinks that those detached lines and couplets, 
which Scaliger has adduced as examples in his Poetics, are 
by no means authentic, hut of his own fabrication. 

2 This is generally inserted among the remainsof Alcaeus. 
Some, however, have attributed it to Anacreon. See our 
poet's twenty-second ode, and the notes. 

3 See Barnes, l?3d. This fragment, to which I have 
taken the liberty of adding a turn not to be found in the 
original, is cited by Lucian in his little essay on the Gallic 
Hercules 

4 Barnes 125th. This, if I remember right, is in Scaliger's 
p oetics. Gail has omitted it in his collection of fragments. 



1 Let me resign a wretched breath, 
Since now remains to me 

No other balm than kindly death, 
To sooth my misery ! 



2 I know thou lovest a brimming measure, 
And art a kindly cordial host ; 

But let me fill and drink at pleasure, 
Thus»l enjoy the goblet most 



3 I fear that love disturbs my rest, 
Yet feel not love's impassion'd care ; 

I think there 's madness in my breast, 
Yet cannot find that madness there ! 



4 From dread Leucadia's frowning ste& 
I '11 plunge into the whitening deep, 
And there 1 '11 float, to waves resign'd, 
For love intoxicates my mind ! 



& Mix me, child, a cup divine, 
Crystal water, ruby wine ; 
Weave the frontlet, richly flushing, 
O'er my wintry temples blushing. 
Mix the brimmer — love and I 
Shall no more the gauntlet try, 
Here — upon this holy bowl, 
I surrender all my soul ! 

Among the Epigrams of the Anthologia, there are 
some panegyrics on Anacreon, which 1 had trans- 
lated, and originally intended as a kind of Coronis to 
the work ; but I found, upon consideration, that they 
wanted variety : a frequent recurrence of the same 
thought, within the limits of an epitaph, to which 
they are confined, would render a collection of them 
rather uninteresting. I shall take the liberty, how- 
ever, of subjoining a few, that I may not appear to 
have totally neglected those elegant tributes to the 
reputation of Anacreon. The four Epigrams which 



1 This fragment is extant in Arsenius and Hephrcstion. 
See Barnes, (6yth,) who has arranged the metre of it very 
elegantly. 

2 Barnes, 72d. This fragment, which is quoted by Athe 
naeus, is an excellent lesson for the votaries of Jupiter Hos- 
pitalis. 

3 This fragment is in Hephcestion. See Barnes, 95th. 
Catullus expresses something of this contrariety of feeling ■ 

Odi et amo ; quaie id faciam fortasse requiris ; 

Nescio : sed fieri sentio, et excrucior. Carm. 53. 
I love thee and hate thee, but if I can tell 

The cause of my love and my bate, may I die ! 
I can feel it, alas! I can feel it too well, 

That 1 love thee and hate thee, but cannot tell why. 

4 This also is in Hcpha?ston, and perhaps is a fragment 
of some poem, in which Anacreon had commemorated 
the fate of Sappho. It is in the 123d of Barnes. 

5 This fragment is collected by Barnes from Demetrins 
Phalareus, and Eustathius, and is subjoined in his edition 
to the epigrams attributed to our poet. And hero is the last 
of those little scattered flowers which I thought I might 
venture with any grace to transplant. T wish it could be 
said of the garland which they form, To £' »£' Ai/:«y.p=oi>Tv,, 



ODES OF ANACREON. 



269 



I give are imputed to Antipater Sidonius. They are 
rendered, perhaps, with too much freedom ; but, de- 
signing a translation of all that are on the subject, I 
imagined it was necessary to enliven their uniformity 
by sometimes indulging in the liberties of paraphrase. 



Avmzarpov "ZtSwviov, £ig AvanpEovra. 
6AAAOI Tirpaicopvufios, Avaicpeov, ap([>i ore Kicrcrog 

aj3pa re Xeiixwvwv Ttop(pvpeu)v -Ktraka' 
nriyai <5' apyivozvrog avaOXifioivro ya\aKrog t 

evwbeg 5* airo yrjg t)Sv %£oiro ptQv, 
*<[>pa kc toi o-rroSirj tc Kai o^-ea Ttp^iv aprjrai, 

£1 $£ Tig (f)dip£V0ig %pip.TTT£Tai £V<ppO<7VVa, 

u> to <pi\ov $-£p%ag, $iy£, fiapfiiTOV, u> aw aoiSa 
iravra tiiairXuaag Kai cvv £pu)Ti fiiov. 

'Around the tomb, oh bard divine ! 

Where soft thy hallow'd brow reposes, 
Long may the deathless ivy twine, 

And Summer pour her waste of roses ! 

And many a fount shall there distil, 
And many a rill refresh the flowers ; 

But wine rhall gush in every rill, 
And every fount be milky showers. 

Thus, shade of him whom Nature taught 
To tune his lyre and soul to pleasure, 

Who gave to love his warmest thought, 
Who gfve to love his fondest measure ! 

Thus, a^er death, if spirits feel, 

Thou m^ '"st, from odours round thee streaming, 
A pulse of past enjoyment steal, 

And live again in blissful dreaming ! 



Tov avrov, £ig tov avrov. 
TYMEOS AvaKpciovrog. b Trj'iog £v8a8£ kvkvos 

Ein5a, j(n iraiSuv fyporarr) pavirj. 
AKprjv Xcipio£VTi p£\i^£Tai aptyi Ba0uAX<^> 

'I/iEpa' Kai kio-gov XevKos odwSe Xidog. 



1 Antipater Sidonius, the author of this epigram, lived, 
according to Vossius, de Poetis Graecis, in the second year 
of the 169th Olympiad. He appears, from what Cicero and 
diiintiliun have said of him, to have been a kind of impro- 
visator. See Institut. Orat. lib. x. cap. 7. There is no- 
thing more known respecting this poet, except some parti- 
culars about his illness and deaih, which are mentioned as 
curious by Pliny and others; and there remain of his works 
but a few epigrams in the Anthologia, among which are 
those I have selected, upon Anacreon. Those remains 
have been sometimes imputed to another poet (a) of the 
same name, of whom Vossius gives us the following ac- 
count: "Antipater Thessalonicensis vixit tempore A ugusti 
Caesaris, ut qui saltantem viderit Pyladem, sicut constat ex 
quodam ejus epigrammate AvS-oA.oyia;, lib. 4. tit. ng Op- 
Xyi<rrpiSx,f . At eum ac Bathyllum primos fuisse pantomi- 
mos, ac sub Augusto claruisse, satis notum ex Dione," etc. 

The reader, who thinks it worth observing, may find a 
Btrange oversight in Hoffman's quotation of this article from 
Vossius, Lexic. Univers. By the omission of a sentence he 
has made Vossius assert that the poet Antipater was one 
of the first pantomime dancers in Rome. 

Barnes, upon the epigram before us, mentions a version 
of it by Brodaeus, which is not to be found in that commenta- 
tor; but he more than once confounds Brodaeus with ano- 
ther nnnotator on the Anthologia, Vincentius Obsopceus, 
who has given a translation of the epigram. 

(a) Pleraquc- tamen Thessalonicensi tribuenda videntur. 
Brunck. Lectiones et Emendat. 



Ou<5' AiSrjg coi £po)rag <ni£G$£o~£V £v <5' Ay£povm% 
Slv, b\og u5iv£ig Kvirpidi dtppoTtprj. 

Here sleeps Anacreon, in this ivied shade ; 
Here, mute in death, the Teian swan is laid. 
Cold, cold the heart, which lived but to respire 
All the voluptuous frenzy of desire ! 
And yet, oh bard ! thou art not mute in deatn, 
Still, still we catch thy lyre's delicious breath, 
And still thy songs of soft Bathylla bloom, 
Green as the ivy round the mouldering tomb ! 
Nor yet has death obscured thy fire of love, 
Still, still it lights thee through the Elysian grove. 
And dreams are thine that bless the elect alone, 
And Venus calls thee, even in death, her own ! 



Tot; avrov, £ig tov avTov. 
HEINE, Ta<pov izapa \itov Avatcpuovrog a/iu)3a» 

Er Tl TOI £K j8lj8AwV rjXQw £pwv O0£Ao?, 
"Ziruaov £/ir) <nro5iji, a-iruaov yavog, o(ppa K£V onu> 

Of£a yr\Qr\G£ rapa vori£op£va, 
'SLg b Aiovvaov pepEXrjpevog ovaa£ Kupog 

f £2j b <pi\aKpt]rov avvrpocpog appoving, 
M??<5e KaracpOipEvog Buk-^ov 6i%a tovtov viroiota 

TOV y£V£J] jXEpoiTUV %0)p0V 0(p£l\op£VOV. 

'Oh stranger ! if Anacreon's shell 
Has ever taught thy heart to swell 



the Teian swan is laid.] Thus Horace of Pindar; 

Multa Dircaeum levat aura eyenum. 
A swan was the hierogiyphical emblem of a poet. Ana- 
creon has been called the swan of Teos by another of his 
eulogists. 

Ev to«s /t«e\i%po«5 I/«poi<r» c-uvTpo<f>ov 
Avxiog Avxxpsovrx, Tqiov xuqi'Ji/, 
Ea-<jJijA.as vyp*! vtxrapoj fte\iiSov>t. 

Evysvovg, Avi3oA.oy. j 

God of the grape! thou hastbetray'd, 
In wine's bewildering dream, 
The fairest swan that ever play'd 
Along the Muse's stream ! 
The Teian, nursed with all those honied boys, 
The young Desires, light Loves, and rose-lipp'd Joys ! 
Still, still we catch thy lyre's delicious breath.] Thus 
Simonides, speaking of our poet: 

lAa\7rv\g £' ou \v\tsq fteXiTep-sreog, «XX.' srt xejvo 
BapS»T0t» QvSi Savtov ivvxTtv eiv esij>). 

Ei/twviSov, AvS"\oy, 

Nor yet are all his numbers mute, 

Though dark within the tomb he lies ; 
But living still, his amorous lute 
With sleepless animation sighs! 

This is the famous Simonides, whom Plato styled ' di- 
vine," though Le Fevre, in his Poetes Grecs, supposes that 
the epigrams under his name are all falsely imputed. Tho 
most considerable of his remains is a satirical poe;.n upon 
women, preserved by Siobaeus, fyoyog ywxtxtuv. 

We may judge from the lines I have just quoted, and the 
import of the epigram before us, that the works of Anacreon 
were perfect in the times of Simonides and Antipater. Ob- 
sopceus, the commentator, here appears to exult in their de- 
struction, and telling us they were burned by the bishops 
and patriarchs, he adds, "nee sane id nccquicquam fece- 
runt," attributing to this outrage an effect which it could 
never produce. 

1 The spirit of Anacreon utters these verses from the 
tomb, somewhat "mutatus ab iHo," at least in simplicity ot 
expression. 

If Anacreon's shell 

Has ever taught thy heart to swell, etc.] We may guess 
from the words sx Bt&Kwv epwv, that Anacreon was not 
merely a writer of billets-doux, as some French critics havo 
called him. Amongst these, M. Le Fevre, with all his pi o 



270 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



With passion's throb or pleasure's sigh, 
In pity turn, as wandering nigh, 
And drop thy goblet's richest tear, 
In exquisite libation here ! 
So shall my sleeping ashes thrill 
With visions of enjoyment still. 
I cannot even in death resign 
The festal joys that once were mine, 
When Harmony pursued my ways, 
And Bacchus wanton'd to my lays. 
Oh ! if delight could charm no more, 
If all the goblet's bliss were o'er, 
When Fate had once our doom decreed, 
Then dying would be death indeed ! 
Nor could I think, unblest by wine, 
Divinity itself divine ! 



Tov avrov, aj tov clvtov. 
E'YAEiS tv (p6in£voitjiv, Avaicpeov, £<r0Xa Trov^caj, 

elSei <5' »/ yXvKtpy] vvK-i\a\os KtOapa, 
tvhei Kai "ZuioSts, -o HoOuv sap, op <rv //sXto^wv 

(3tip(3iT, avtKpovov viKrap zvappoviov. 
rjlOeov yap Epwros t(pvs gkottos' e? hi ae [xovvov 

ro(a ts teat CKo\iag ti-X £V £K»7/3oAia?.| 

At length thy golden hours have wing'd their flight, 
And drowsy death that eyelid steepeth ; 



fessed admiration, lias given our poet a character by no 

means of an elevated cast: 

Aussi e'est pour cela que la posterite 
L'a ton jours justement d'fige en age chartte 
Comme un franc goguenard, ami de goini'rerie, 
Ami de billets-doux et de badinerie. 

See the verses prefixed to his Poetes Grecs. This is un- 
like the language of Theocritus, to whom Anacreon is in- 
debted for the following simple eulogium: 

Etg Avxy.piovrog xvSptxvrx, 
@xr»i tov avSptxvTM toutov, o> £-=v£, 

O-5T0U*55, X.Xt Xiy', S7TXV lg 0(X0V £A.5ifff 

Avxy.psovrog eixov' itSav si/ Teai, 

Tail! TTpOTJ' 1 It T» TTSpHTVOV rxlS07T3KUV, 

vpoa-ostf js %'nri rotg vioto-tv x$iT0 y 
ipag xrpiy.img 0A.0V tov tx,v$px. 

Upon the Statue of Anacreon. 

Stranger! who near this statue chance to roam, 
Let it awhile your studious eyes engage: 

And you may say, returning to your home, 
" I've seen the image of the Teian sage, 
Best of the bards who deck the Muse's page." 

rhen, if you add, " That striplings loved hi:n well," 

You tell them all he was, and aptly tell. 

The simplicity of this inscription has always delighted 
n.e; I have sriven it, I believe, as literally as a verse trans- 
lation will allow. 

And drop thy goHeCs richest tear, etc.] Thus Simo- 
tiides, in another of his epitaphs on our poet: 

K*i y.tv xit riyyot varspyf Jpoo-o?, (J 5 o yipxtog 

A'-*pOT£poV yxXXXUV 17TVIIV 17. <TT 0y.XT'J)V . 

Let vines, in clustering beauty wreathed, 

Drop all their treasures on his head, 
Whose lips a dew of sweetness breathed, 
Richer than vine hath ever shed! 
And Bacchus wanton 1 d to My lays, etc.] The original 
here is corrupted; the line o; o A«oi.-u<rou, is unintelligible. 

Brunck's emendation improves the sense, hut I doubt if it 
ean be commended for elegance. He reads the line thus: 
wf o A>u)vuo-oio \i\x<ry.ivog outots xto/utov. 
B5i c Bruuck, Analecta Veter. Poet Groec. vol. ii. 

77;y harp, that whispered through each lingering night, 
Ae. 1 In another of these poems, "the nightly-speaking 



Thy harp, that whisper'd through each lingering mgiu 
Now mutely in oblivion sleepeth ! 

She, too, for whom that heart profusely shed 

The purest nectar of its numbers, 
She, the young spring of thy desires, has fled, 

And with her blest Anacreon slumbers ! 
Farewell ! thou hadst a pulse for every dart 

That Love could scatter from his quiver ; 
And every woman found in thee a heart, 

Which thou, with all thy soul, didst give her ! 



35 CptXxy.p 

7TXVVV%t0g 



lyre" of the bard is not allowed to be silent even after his 
death. 

£ XXI 0tV0&xpS<; $tX0XLtiy.3{ 

1 (a) T>jv cptK07Txt&x %eKuv, 
Xty.wvt$ov f a; Avxxpiovrx. 

To beauty's smile and wine's delight, 

To joys he loved on earth so well, 
Still shall his spirit, all the night, 
Attune the wild aerial shell! 
She, the young spring of thy desires, etc.] The original, 
to IIo3-jv txp, is beautiful. We regret that such praise 
should be lavished so preposterously, and feel that the poet's 
mistress, Eurypyle, would have deserved it better. Her 
name has been told us by Meleager, as already quoted, and 
in another epigram by Anlipater. 

vypx Si Sipxoyivot<rtv iv oy.y.xo'iv ou\ov aetSotg- 

aiOuo-o-iuv XiTrxpig xviog vzripSi xoy.y\g y 
tie 7rpog EvpV7rvKviv -rtTpxy-yttvog 

Long may the nymph around thee play, 

Eurypyle, thy soul's desire ! 
Basking her beauties in the ray 

That lights thine eyes' dissolving fire ! 

Sing of her smile's bewitching power, 

Her every grace that warms and blesses, 
Sing of her brow's luxuriant flower, 
The beaming glory of her tresses. 
The expression here, xv5cgy.oy.yg, "the flower of the hair," 
is borrowed from Anacreon himself, as appears by a fragment 
of the poet preserved in Stobieus: Az-ixitpxg $' o.t.«.ki\$ 
xy.wy.av xvSog, 

The purest nectar of its numbers, etc.] Thus, says 
Biunck, in the prologue to the Satires of Persius: 
Cantare ciedas Pegaseium nectar. 

"Melos" is the usual reading in this line, and Casaubon 
has defended it; but "nectar," I think, is much mora 
spirited. 

Farewell ! thou hadst a pulse for every dart, etc.] t(?ve 
o-xox-oj, " scopus eras natura," not " speculator," as Barnes 
very falsely interprets it. 

Vincentius Obsopceus, upon this passage, contrives to 
indulge us with a little astrological wisdom, and talks in a 
style of learned scandal about Venus, "male posita cum 
Marte in domo Salurni." 

And every woman found in thee a heart, etc.] This 
couplet is not oinerwi.se warranted by the original, than as 
it dilates the thought which Antipater has figuratively ex- 
pressed. 

Tov Si yvvxxitwv y.iXi'ov ttXi^xvtx ttot' uiSxg, 
HSuv Av*y.p£<ot'T«, (b) Tiu,g itg EXXxS' xvviyev, 
Xvy.7ro<rtuiv epiSrtary.x, yvvxtxjiv v\7rip07ri\iyx. 
Critias, of Athens, pays a tribute to the legitimate gal- 
lantry of Anacreon, calling him, with elegant conciseness, 
yvvxtxwv v\7?ipo7rivy.x. 

Teos gave to Greece her treasure, 

Snge Anacreon, sage in loving; 

Fondly weaving lays of pleasure 

For the maids who blush'd approving! 
Oh ! in nightly banquets sporting, 

Where's the guest could ever fly him? 
Oh ! with love's seduction courting, 

Where 's the nymph could e'er deny him ? 

(a) Brunck has xpoucov ; but xpouoi, the common reading 
better suits a detached quotation. 

(b) Thus Scaliger, in his dedicatory verses to Ronsaid: 
Blandus, suaviloquus, dulcis Anacreon. 



r:=J 



XilTTLE'S POEMS, 



Lusissk PUDET. — Hor. 

TaJ' »<rr' ovufoiv vsorepuv <f>avT«07i«TM, ojok X.»tpoj. 

Metroc. ap. Diug. Laert. lib. vi. cap. 6. 



PEEFACE 

BY THE EDITOR. 



The Poems which I take the liberty of publishing 
were never intended by the Author to pass beyond 
the circle of his friends. He thought, with some 
justice, that what are called Occasional Poems must 
be always insipid and uninteresting to the greater 
part of their readers. The particular situations in 
which they were written ; the character of the author 
and of his associates ; all these peculiarities must be 
known and felt before we can enter into the spirit of 
such compositions. This consideration would have 
always, I believe, prevented Mr. Little from sub- 
mitting these trifles of the moment to the eye of dis- 
passionate criticism ; and, if their posthumous intro- 
duction to the world be injustice to his memory, or 
intrusion on the public, the error must be imputed to 
the injudicious partiality of friendship. 

Mr. Little died in his one-and-twentieth year; 
and most of these Poems were written at so early a 
period, that their errors may claim some indulgence 
from the critic • their author, as unambitious as indo- 
lent, scarce ever looked beyond the moment of com- 
position ; he wrote as he pleased, careless whether 
he pleased as he wrote. It may likewise be remem- 
bered, that they were all the productions of an age 
when the passions very often give a colouring too 
warm to the imagination ; and this may palliate, if it 
cannot excuse, that air of levity which pervades so 
many of them. The " aurea legge, s' ei piace ei lice," 
he too much pursued, and too much inculcates. Few- 
can regret this more sincerely than myself; and if my 
friend had lived, the judgment of riper years would 
have chastened his mind, and tempered the luxuriance 
of his fancy. 

Mr. Little gave much of his time to the study of 
the amatory writers. If ever he expected to find 
the ancients that delicacy of sentiment and variety of 
fancy which are so necessary to refine and animate 
the poetry of love, he was much disappointed. I 
know not any one of them who can be regarded as 
a model in that style ; Ovid made lpve like a rake, 
and Propertius like a schoolmaster. The mytholo- 
gical allusions of the latter are called erudition by his 
commentators ; but such ostentatious display, upon a 
subject so simple as love, would be now esteemed 
vague and puerile, and was, even in his own times, 
pedantic. It is astonishing that so many critics have 



preferred him to the pathetic Tibullus ; but I believe 
the defects which a common reader condemns have 
been looked upon rather as beauties by those erudite 
men, the commentators, who find a field for their 
ingenuity and research in his Grecian learning and 
quaint obscurities. 

Tibullus abounds with touches of fine and natural 
feeling. The idea of his unexpected return to Delia, 
" Tunc veniam subito," 1 etc. is imagined with all the 
delicate ardour of a lover ; and the sentiment of 
" nee te posse carere velim," however colloquial the 
expression may have been, is natural and from the 
heart. But, in my opinion, the poet of Verona pos- 
sessed more genuine feeling than any of them. His 
life was, I believe, unfortunate ; his associates were 
wild and abandoned ; and the warmth of his nature 
took too much advantage of the latitude which the 
morals of those times so criminally allowed to the 
passions. All this depraved his imagination, and 
made it the slave of his senses : but still a native 
sensibility is often very warmly perceptible ; and 
when he touches on pathos, he reaches the heart im- 
mediately. They who have felt the sweets of return 
to a home, from which they have long been absent, 
will confess the beauty of those simple unaffected 
lines: 

O quid solutis est beatius curis ? 

Cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino 

Lahore fessi venimus Larem ad nostrum 

Desideratoque acquiescimus iecto. 

Carm. xxxii. 
His sorrows on the death of his brother are the 
very tears of poesy; and when he complains of the 
ingratitude of mankind, even the inexperienced can- 
not but sympathize with him. I wish I were a poet ; 
I should endeavour to catch, by translation, the spirit 
of those beauties which I admire 2 so warmly. 

It seems to have been peculiarly the fate of Catul- 
lus, that the better and more valuable part of his 
poetry has not reached us ; for there is confessedly 
nothing in his extant works to authorize the epithet 
" doctus," so universally bestowed upon him by the 
ancients. If time had suffered the rest to escape, we 
perhaps should have found among them some more 
purely amatory ; but of those we possess, can there 



1 Lib. i. eleg. 3. 

2 In the following Poems, there is a translation of one ot 
his finest Carmina: but I fancy it is only a school-bcty'd 
essay, and deserves to be praised for little more than tho 
attempt. 



J 



272 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



be a sweeter specimen of warm, yet chastened de- 
scription, than his loves of Acme and Septimius ? 
and the few little songs of dalliance to Lesbia are 
distinguished by such an exquisite playfulness, that 
they have always been assumed as models by the 
most elegant modern Latinists. Still, I must confess, 
in the midst of these beauties, 

Medio de fonte leporum 

Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat.' 

It has often been remarked, tha* the ancients knew 
nothing of gallantry ; and we are told there was too 
much sincerity in their love to allow them to trifle 
with the semblance of passion. But I cannot per- 
ceive that they were any thing more constant than 
the moderns: they felt all the same dissipation of the 
heart, though they knew not those seductive graces 
by which gallantry almost teaches it to be amiable. 
Watton, the learned advocate for the moderns, de- 
serts them in considering this point of comparison, 
and praises the ancients for their ignorance of such 
a refinement ; but he seems to have collected his 
notions of gallantry from the insipid fadeurs of the 
French romances, which are very unlike the senti 
mental levity, the "grata protervitas," of a Rochester 
or a Sedley. 

From what I have had an opportunity of observing, 
the early poets of our own language were the models 
which Mr. Little selected for imitation. To attain 
their simplicity (aevo rarissima nostro simplicitas) was 
his fondest ambition. He could not have aimed at a 
grace more difficult of attainment ; 2 and his life was 
of too short a date to allow him to perfect such a 
taste ; but how far he was likely to have succeeded, 
the critic may judge from his productions. 

I have found among his papers a novel, in rather 
an imperfect state, which, as soon as 1 have arranged 
and collected it, shall be submitted to the public eye. 
Where Mr. Little was born, or what is the gene- 
alogy of his parents, are points in which very few 
readers can be interested. His life was one of those 
humble streams which have scarcely a name in the 
map cf life, and the traveller may pass it by without 
inquiring its source or direction. His character was 
well known to all who were acquainted with him ; for 
he had too much vanity to hide its virtues, and not 
enough of art to conceal its defects. The lighter traits 
of his mind may be traced perhaps in his writings 
but the few for which he was valued live only in the 
remembrance of his friends. T. M. 



TO J. ATK— NS— N, ESQ. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you 
the Second Edition of our friend Little's Poems. 
I am not unconscious that there are many in the col- 
lection which perhaps it would be prudent to have 
altered or omitted ; and, to say the truth, I more than 



1 Lucretius. 

2 It is a curious illustration of the labour which simplicity 
inquires, that the Ramblers of Johnson, elaborate as they 
appear, were written with fluency, and seldom required 
revision; while the simple language of Rousseau, which 
Fecnis to come flowing from the heart, was the slow 

? reduction of painful labour, pausing on every word, and 
alaccuig every sentence. i 



once revised them for that purpose ; but, I know po 
why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgmutnt 
and the consequence is, you have them in their ori- 
ginal form : 

Non possunt nostros multw, Faustine, liturs 
Einendare jocos; una lituia potest. 
I am convinced, however, that though net quite a 
casuiste relache, you have charity enough to forgive 
such inoffensive follies : you know the pious Beza 
was not the less revered for those sportive juvenilia 
which he published under a fictitious name; nor 
did the levity of Bembo's poems prevent him frora 
making a very good cardinal. 

Believe me, my dear friend, 

With the truest esteem, 
Yours, 

T.M. 

April 19, 1802. 



POEMS, etc. 



TO JULIA. 

IN allusion to some illiberal criticisms 
Why, let the stingless critic chide 
With all that fume of vacant pride 
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool, 
Like vapour on a stagnant pool ! 
Oh ! if the song, to feeling true, 
Can please the elect, the sacred few, 
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught, 
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought — 
If some fond feeling maid like thee, 
The Warm-eyed child of Sympathy, 
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme 
She languishes in Passion's dream, 
" He was, indeed, a tender soul — 
No critic law, no chill controul, 
Should ever freeze, by timid art, 
The flowings of so fond a heart !" 
Yes ! soul of Nature ! soul of Love ! 
That, hovering like a snow-wing'd dove, 
Breathed o'er my cradle warblirigs wild, 
And hail'd me Passion's warmest child ! 
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye, 
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh ; 
Oh ! let my song, my memory, find 
A shrine within the tender mind ; 
And I will scorn the critic's chide, 
And I will scorn the fume of pride 
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool, 
Like vapour on a stagnant pool ! 



TO A LADY, 

WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS 
ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY. 

When, casting many a look behind, 
I leave the friends I cherish here — 

Perchance some other friends to find, 
But surely finding none so dear — 

Haply the little simple page, 
Which votive thus I've traced for thee, 



LITTLE'S P0E3IS 



272 



May now and then a look engage, 
And steal a moment's thought for me. 

But, oh ! in pity let not those 

Whose hearts are not of gentle mould, 
Let not the eye, that seldom flows 

With feeling tear, my song behold. 

For, trust me, they who never melt 
With pity, never melt with love ; 

And they will frown at all I've felt, 
And all my loving lays reprove. 

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind, 

Which rather loves to praise than blame, 

Should in my page an interest find, 
And linger kindly on my name ; 

Tell him, — or, oh ! if gentler still, 
By female lips my name be blest: 

Ah ! where do all affections thrill 
So sweetly as in woman's breast ?— 

Tell her, that he whose loving themes 
Her eye indulgent wanders o'er, 

Could sometimes wake from idle dreams, 
And bolder flights of fancy soar; 

That glory oft would claim the lay, 
And friendship oft his numbers move; 

But whisper then, that, " sooth to say, 
His sweetest song was given to Love !" 



TO MRS. 



If, in the dream that hovers 
Around my sleeping mind, 

Fancy thy form discovers, 
And paints thee melting kind. 

If joys from sleep I borrow, 
Sure thou'lt forgive me this ; 

For he who wakes to sorrow 
At least may dream of bliss ! 

Oh ! if thou art, in seeming, 
All that I've e'er required : 

Oh ! if I feel, in dreaming, 
All that I've e'er desired; 

Wilt thou forgive my taking 
A kiss, or something more ? 

What thou deny'st me waking, 
Oh ! let me slumber o'er ! 



TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL 

MISS . 

IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE. 

IMPROMPTU. 

— Ego pars Virg. 

In wedlock a species of lottery lies, 
Where in blanks and inprizes we deal; 

But how comes it that you, such a capital prize, 
Should so long have remain 1 d in the wheel 7 
2M 



If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree, 

To me such a ti< ket should roll, 
A sixteenth, Heaven knows ! were sufficient for me 

For what could I do with the whole ? 



TO JULIA. 

Well, Julia, if to love, and live 
'Mid all the pleasures love can give, 

Be crimes that bring damnation; 
You — you and I have given such scope 
To loves and joys, we scarce can hope 

In heaven the least salvation ! 

And yet, I think, did Heaven design 
That blisses dear, like yours and mine, 

Should be our own undoing; 
It had not made my soul so warm, 
Nor given you such a witching form, 

To bid me do at on ruin ! 

Then wipe away that timid tear ; 
Sweet truant ! you have nought to fear, 

Though you were whelm'd in sin ; 
Stand but at heaven's gate awhile, 
And you so like an angel smile, 

They can't but let you in. 



INCONSTANCY. 

And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, 
When surely there 's nothing in nature more com- 
mon? 
She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves 
me — 
But could I expect any more from a woman ? 

Oh, woman ! your heart is a pitiful treasure ; 

And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, 
When he thought you were only materials of pleasure, 

And reason and thinking were out of your sphere 

By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it. 
He thinks that an age of anxiety 's paid ; 

But, oh ! while he 's blest, let him die on the minute— 
If he live but a day, he'll be surely betray 'd. 



IMITATION OF CATULLUS.' 

TO HIMSELF. 

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, etc. 

Cease the sighing fool to play ; 
Cease to trifle life away ; 
Nor vainly think those joys thine own, 
Which all, alas ! have falsely flown ! 
What hours, Catullus, once were thine, 
How fairly seem'd thy day to shine, 



1 Few poets knew better than Catullus, what a French 
writer calls 



la ilelicatesse 



D'un voluptueux sentiment; 
j but his passions too often obscured his imagination —8 



274 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



EPIGRAM. 1 

Your mother says, my little Venus, 
There 's something not correct between us, 

And you're in fault as much as I : 
Now, on my soul, my little Venus, 
I think 't would not be right between us, 

To let your mother tell a lie ! 



/ 



y 



TO JULIA, 

Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part, 
Our souls it cannot, shall not, sever ; 

The heart will seek its kindred heart, 
And cling to it as close as ever. 

But must we, must we part indeed ? 

Is all our dream of rapture over ? 
And does not Julia's bosom bleed 

To leave so dear, so fond a lover ? 

Does she too mourn ? — Perhaps she may ; 

Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting : 
"But why is Julia's eye so gay, 

If Julia's heart like mine is beating? 

I oft have loved the brilliant glow 

Of rapture in her blue eye streaming— 

But can the bosom bleed with woe, 
While joy is in the glances beaming ? 

1 L believe this epigram is originally French. — E 



When lightly thou didst fly to meet 
The girl, who smiled so rosy sweet — 
The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain 
Than e'er thy heart can feel again ! 
You met — your souls seem'd all in one — 
Sweet little sports were said and done — 
Thy heart was warm enough for both, 
And hers indeed was nothing loth. 
Such were the hours that once were thine ; 
But, ah ! those hours no longer shine '. 
For now the nymph delights no more 
In what she loved so dear before j 
And all Catullus now can do 
Is to be proud and frigid too ; 
Nor follow where the wanton flies, 
Nor sue the bliss that she denies. 
False maid ! he bids farewell to thee, 
To love, and all love's miserv. 
The hey-day of his heart is o'er, 
Nor will he court one favour more ; 
But soon he'll see thee droop thy head, 
Doom'd to a lone and loveless bed, 
When none will seek the happy night, 
Or come to traffic in delight ! 
Fly, perjured girl ! — but whither fly ? 
Who now will praise thy cheek and eye ? 
Who now will drink the syren tone, 
Which tells him thou art all his own ? 
Who now will court thy wild delights, 
Thy honey kiss, and turtle bites ? 
Oh ! none. — And he who loved before 
Can never, never love thee more ! 



No, no !— let, love, I will not chide, 

Although your heart were fond of roving : 

Nor that, nor all the world beside 

Could keep your faithful boy from loving. 

You '11 soon be distant from his eye, 

And, with you, all that 's worth possessing 

Oh ! then it will be sweet to die, 
When life has lost its only blessing ! 



SONG. 

Sweet seducer! blandly smiling; 
Charming still, and still beguiling ' 
Oft I swore to love thee never, 
Yet I love thee more than ever ! 

Why that little wanton blushing, 
Glancing eye, and bosom flushing ? 
Flushing warm, and wily glancing — 
All is lovely, all entrancing ! 

Turn away those lips of blisses — 
I am poison'd by thy kisses ! 
Yet, again, ah ! turn them to me : 
Ruin 's sweet, when they undo me ! 

Oh ! be less, be less enchanting ; 
Let some little grace be wanting ; 
Let my eyes, when I'm expiring, 
Gaze awhile without admiring ! 



NATURE'S LABELS 

A FRAGMENT. 

In vain we fondly strive to trace 
The soul's reflection in the face ; 
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses. 
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis ; 
Boobies have look'd as wise and bright 
As Plato or the Stagyrite : 
And many a sage and learned skull 
Has peep'd through windows dark and du. 
Since then, though art do all it can, 
We ne'er can reach the inward man, 
Nor inward woman, from without 
(Though, ma'am, you smile, as if in doubt.* 
I think 't were well if Nature could 
(And Nature could, if Nature would) 
Some pretty short descriptions write, 
In tablets large, in black and white, 
Which she might hang about our throttles, 
Like labels upon physic-bottles. 
There we might read of all — But stay- 
As learned dialectics say, 
The argument most apt and ample 
For common use, is the example. 
For instance, then, if Nature's care 
Had not arranged those traits so fair, 
Which speak the soul of Lucy L-nd-n, 
This is the label she'd have pinn'd on. 

LABEL FIRST. 

Within this vase there lies enshrined 
The purest, brightest gem of mind ' 



i 



LITTLE'S POEMS. 



27f 



Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw 
flpon its charms the shade of woe, 
The lustre cf the gem, when veil'd, 
Shall be but mellow'd, not conceal'd. 

Now, sirs, imagine, if you 're able, 

That Nature wrote a second label, 

They 're her own words — at least suppose so- 

And boldly pin it on Pomposo. 

LABEL SECOND. 

When I composed the fustian brain 
Of this redoubted Captain Vain, 
I had at hand but few ingredients, 
And so was forced to use expedients. 
I put therein some small discerning, 
A grain of sense, a grain of learning ; 
And when I saw the void behind, 
I fill'd it up with — froth and wind ! 



TO MRS. M . 

Sweet lady ! look not thus again : 
Those little pouting smiles recal — 

A maid remember'd now with pain, 
Who was my love, my life, my all ! 

Oh ! while this heart delirious took 
Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, 

Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look, 
And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh ! 

jfes, I did love her — madly love — 
She was the sweetest, best deceiver ! 

And oft she swore she'd never rove ! 
And I was destined to believe her ! 

Then, lady, do not wear the smile 

Of her whose smile could thus betray : 

Ajss ! I think the lovely wile 
Again might steal my heart away. 

And when the spell that stole my mind ^ 
On lips so pure as thine I see, 

I fear the heart which she resign'd 
Will err again, and fly to thee ! 



SONG. 



Why, the world are all thinking about it 
And, as for myself, I can swear, 

If I fancied that heaven were without it, 
1 'd scarce feel a wish to go there. 

If Mahomet would but receive me, 
And Paradise be as he paints, 

I 'm greatly afraid, God forgive me ! 
I 'd worship the eyes of his saints. 

But why should I think of a trip 
To the Prophet's seraglio above, 

When Phillida gives me her lip, 
As my own little heaven of love? 

Oh, Phillis ! that kiss may be sweeter 
Than ever by mortal was given ; 



But your lip, love ! is only St. Peter, 
And keeps but the key to your heaven ' 



TO JULIA. 

Mock me no more with love's beguiling dream, 

A dream, I find, illusory as sweet : 
One smile of friendship, nay of cold esteem, 

Is dearer far than passion's bland deceit ! 

I 've heard you oft eternal truth declare ; 

Your heart was only mine, I once believed 
Ah ! shall I say that all your vows were air ? 

And must I say, my hopes were all deceived ? 

Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined. 

That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal : 
Julia ! 't is pity, pity makes you kind ; 

You know I love, and you would seem to feel. 

But shall I still go revel in those arms 
On bliss in which affection takes no part ? 

No, no ! farewell ! you give me but your charms, 
When I had fondly thought you gave your heart. 



IMPROMPTU. 

Look in my eyes, my blushing fair ! 

Thou 'It see thyself reflected there ; 

And, as I gaze on thine, I see 

Two little miniatures of me : 
Thus in our looks some propagation lies, 
For we make babies in each other's ey ! 



TO ROSA. 

Does the harp of Rosa slumber? 
Once it breathed the sweetest number 
Never does a wilder song 
Steal the breezy lyre along, 
When the wind, in odours dying, 
Woos it with enamour'd sighing. 

Does the harp of Rosa cease ? 
Once it told a tale of peace 
To her lover's throbbing breast — 
Then he was divinely blest ! 
Ah ' but Rosa loves no more, 
Therefore Rosa's song is o'er ; 
And her harp neglected lies ; 
And her boy forgotten sighs. 
Silent harp — forgotten lover — 
Rosa's love and song are over ! 



SYMPATHY 

TO JULIA. 

— sine me sit nulla Venus. Sulpicm 

Our hearts, my love, were doom'd ..» be, 
The genuine twins of Sympathy : 
They live with one sensation ; 



276 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



In joy or grief, but most in love, 
Our heart-strings musically move, 
And thrill with like vibration. 

How often have I heard thee say, 
Thy vital pulse shall cease to play 

When mine no more is moving ! 
Since, now, to feel a joy alone 
Were worse to thee than feeling none : 

Such sympathy in loving ! 

And, oh ! how often in those eyes, 
Which melting beam'd like azure skies 

In dewy vernal weather — 
How often have I raptured read 
The burning glance, that silent said, 

" Now, love, we feel together V 



TO JULIA. 

I saw the peasant's hand unkind 
From yonder oak the ivy sever ; 

They seem'd in very being twined ; 
Yet now the oak is fresh as ever. 

Not so the widow'd ivy shirjes : 
Torn from its dear and only stay, 

In drooping widowhood it pines, 
And scatters all its blooms away ! 

Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine, 
Till Fate disturb'd their tender ties : 

Thus gay indifference blooms in thine, 
While mine, deserted, droops and dies ! 



TO MRS. 



amore 

In canuti pensier si disconvene. 



Guarini. 



Yes, I think I once heard of an amorous youth 
Who was caught in his grandmother's bed ; 

But I own I had ne'er such a liquorish tooth 
As to wish to be there in his stead. 

'T is for you, my dear madam, such conquests to 
make: 

Antiquarians may value you high : 
But I swear I can't love for antiquity's sake, 

Such a poor virtuoso am I. 

I have seen many ruins all gilded with care, 
But the cracks were still plain to the eye : 

And I ne'er felt a passion to venture in there, 
But turn'd up my nose, and pass'd by- ! 

I perhaps might have sigh'd in your magical chain 
When your lip had more freshness to deck it : 

But 1 'd hate even Dian herself in the wane, — 
She might then go to hell for a Hecate .' 

No, no ! when my heart 's in these amorous faints, 
Which is seldom, thank Heaven ! the case ; — 

For, by reading the Fathers, and Lives of the Saints, 
I keep up a stock of good grace : 



But then 't is the creature luxuriant and fresh 
That my passion with ecstacy owns : 

For indeed, my dear madam, though fond cf the flesk 
I never was partial to bones'! 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAD\ 

Sweet spirit ! if thy airy sleep 
Nor sees my tears, nor hears my sighs, 

Oh ! I will weep, in luxury weep, 
Till the last heart' s-drop fills mine eyes 

But if thy sainted soul can feel, 

And mingles in our misery, 
Then, then, my breaking heart I '11 seal — 

Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me . 

The beam of morn was on the stream, 
But sullen clouds the day deform : 

Thou wert, indeed, that morning beam, 
And death, alas ! that sullen storm. 

Thou wert not form'd for living here, 
For thou wert kindred with the sky ; 

Yet, yet we held thee all so dear, 
We thought thou wert not form'd to die \ 



V 



TO JULIA. 



Sweet is the dream, divinely sweet, 
When absent souls in fancy meet ! — 
At midnight, love, I '11 think of thee ! 
At midnight, love ! oh think of me ! 
Think that thou givest thy dearest kiss, 
And I will think I feel the bliss : 
Then, if thou blush, that blush be mlr.e ; 
And, if I weep, the tear be thine ! 



TO 



Can I again that form caress, 
Or on that lip in rapture twine ? 

No, no ! the lip that all may press 
Shall never more be press'd by mine. 

Can I again that look recall 

Which once could make me die for thee ! 
No, no ! the eye that burns on all 

Shall never more be prized by me ! 



WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A 
LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK. 

Here is one leaf reserved for me, 
From all thy sweet memorials free ; 
And here my simple song might tell 
The feelings thou must guess so well. 
But could I thus, within thy mind, 
One little vacant corner find, 
Where no impression yet is seen, 
Where no memorial yet has been, 
Oh ! it should be my sweetest care 
To write my name for ever there ' 



LITTLE'S POEMS. 



277 



SONG. 
Away with this pouting and sadness ! 

Sweet girl ! will you never give o'er? 
1 love you, by Heaven ! to madness, 

And what can I swear to you more ? 
Believe not the old woman's fable, 

That oaths are as short as a kiss \ 
I '11 love you as long as I 'm able, 

And swear for no longer than this. 

Then waste not the time with professions ; 

For not to be blest when we can 
Is one of the darkest transgressions 

That happen 'twixt woman and man. — 
Pretty moralist ! why thus beginning 

My innocent warmth to reprove ? 
Heaven knows that I never loved sinning — 

Except little sinnings in love ! 

If swearing, however, will do it, 

Come, bring me the calendar, pray— 
I vow by that lip I '11 go through it, 

And not miss a saint on my way. 
.The angels shall help me to wheedle ; 

I '11 swear upon every one 
That e'er danced on the point of a needle, 1 

Or rode on a beam of the sun ! 

Oh ! why should Platonic control, love, 

Enchain an emotion so free ? 
Your soul, though a very sweet soul, love, 

Will ne'er be sufficient for me.,. 
If you think, by this coolness and. scorning, 

To seem more angelic and bright, 
Be an angel, my love, in the morning, 

But, oh ! be a woman to-night ! 



TO ROSA. 

Like him who trusts to summer skies, 

And puts his little bark to sea, 
Is he who, lured by smiling eyes, 

Consigns his simple heart to thee : 
For fickle is the summer wind, 

And sadly may the bark be toss'd ; 
For thou art sure to change thy mind, 

Ar>d then the wretched heart is lost ! 



TO ROSA. 

Oh - why should the girl of my soul be in tears 
. A\ t meeting of rapture like this, 
Who. the glooms of the past, and the sorrow of years, 
Ha e been paid by a moment of bliss ? 

Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight 

Which dwells on her memory yet ? 
Do they flow, like the dews of the amorous night, 

From the warmth of the sun that has set ? 



Oh ! sweet is the tear on that /anguishing smile, 

That smile which is loveliest then ; 
And if such are the drops that delight can begu ; le. 

Thou shalt weep them again and again ! 



1 I believe Mr. Little alluded here to a famous question 
among the early schoolmen: "how many thousand angels 
could dance upon the point of a very fine needle, without 
jostling one another?" If he could have been thinking of 
the schools while he was writing this song, we cannot say 
u canit indor.tum." 



RONDEAU. 
" Good night ! good night !" — and is it so ? 
And must I from my Rosa go ? 
Oh, Rosa ! say " Good night !" once more. 
And I '11 repeat it o'er and o'er, 
Till the first glance of dawning light 
Shall find us saying still, " Good night !" 

And still "Good night !" my Rosa say — 

But whisper still, " A minute stay ;" 

And I will stay, and every minute 

Shall have an age of rapture in it. 

We '11 kiss and kiss in quick delight, 

And murmur, while we kiss, " Good night ' * 

"Good night !" you '11 murmur with a sigh, 

And tell me it is time to fly : 

And I will vow to kiss no more, 

Yet kiss you closer than before ; 

Till slumber seal our weary sight — 

And then, my love ! my soul ! " Good night V 



AN ARGUMENT 
TO ANY PHILLIS OR CHLOE. 
I 've oft been told by learned friars, 

That wishing and the crime are one, 
And Heaven punishes desires 

As much as if the deed were done 

If wishing damns us, you and I 

Are damn'd to all our heart's content 

Come then, at least we may enjoy 
Some pleasure for our punishment ! 



TO ROSA. 

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. 

The wisest soul, by anguish torn, 
Will soon unlearn the lore it knew ; 

And when the shrining casket 's worn, 
The gem within will tarnish too. 

But love 's an essence of the soul, 
Which sinks not with this chain of ch 

Which throbs beyond the chill control 
Of withering pain or pale decay. 

And surely when the touch of death 
Dissolves the spirit's mortal ties, 

Love still attends the soaring breath, 
And makes it purer for the skies ! 

Oh, Rosa ! when, to seek its sphere, 
My soul shall leave this orb of men ! 

That love it found so blissful hero 
Shall be its best of blisses ther, ! 

And, as in fabled dreams of old, 
Some airy genius, child of time ! 



278 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Presided o'er eacli star that roll'd, 

And track'd it through its path sublime ; 

So thou, fair planet, not unled, 

Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray; 

Thy lover's shade, divinely wed, 
Shall linger round thy wandering way. 

Let other spirits range the sky, 

And brighten in the solar gem ; 
I '11 bask beneath that lucid eye, 

Nor envy worlds of suns to them ! 

And oh ! if airy shapes may steal 
To mingle with a mortal frame, 

Then, then, my love ! — but drop the veil ! 
Hide, hide from Heaven the unholy flame. 

No ! — when that heart shall cease to beat, 
And when that breath at length is free ; 

Then, Rosa, soul to soul we '11 meet, 
And mingle to eternity. 



ANACREONTIQUE. 

in lacrymas verterat omne merura. 

Tib. lib. i. eleg. 5. 

Press the grape, and let it pour 
Around the board its purple shower ; 
And while the drops my goblet steep, 
I '11 think — in woe the clusters weep. 

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine ! 
Heaven grant no tears but tears of wine. 
"Weep on ; and, as thy sorrows flow, 
I '11 taste the luxury of woe! 



ANACREONTIQUE. 

Friend of my soul ! this goblet sip, 

'T will chase that pensive tear ; 
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, 
But, oh! 't is more sincere. 
Like her delusive beam, 

'T will steal away thy mind ; 
But, like affection's dream, 
It leaves no sting behind ! 

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade ; 

These flowers were cull'd at noon ; — 
Like woman's love the rose will fade, 
But ah ! not half so soon ! 

For, though the flower 's decay'd, 

Its fragrance is not o'er ; 
But once when love 's betray'd, 
The heart can bloom no more ! 



Neither do I condemn thee ; go, and sin no more !" 
« St. John, chap. viii. 

Oh, woman, if by simple wile 

Thy soul has stray'd from honour's track, 
Tis mercy only can beguile, 

By gentle ways, the wanderer back. 



The stain that on thy virtue lies, 

Wash'd by thy tears may yet decay ; 
As clouds that sully morning skies 

May all be swept in showers away. 
Go, go — be innocent, and live — 

The tongues of men may wound thee sore 
But Heaven in pity can forgive, 

And bids thee " Go, and sin no more !" 



LOVE AND MARRIAGE. 

Eque brevi verbo t'erre perenne malum. 

Sccundtis, eleg vii. 

Still the question I must parry, 

Still a wayward truant prove : 
Where I love, I must not marry, 

Where I marry, cannot love. 

Were she fairest of creation, 
With the least presuming mind ; 

Learned without affectation; 
Not deceitful, yet refined ; 

v Wise enough, but never rigid ; 
Gay, but not too lightly free ; 
Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid ; 
Warm, yet satisfied with me : 

Were she all this, ten times over, 
All that Heaven to earth allows, 

I should be too much her lover 
Ever to become her spouse. 

Love will never bear enslaving ; 

Summer garments suit him best : 
Bliss it«elf is not worth having, 

If we're by compulsion blest. 



THE KISS. 

Ilia ni9i in lecto nusquam potuere rlnror. 

Ovid. lib. ii. eleg. 5. 

Give me, my lo^e, that billing kiss 

■ I taught you one delicious night, 
j When, turning epicures in bliss, 

We tried inventions of delight. 

■j I 
Come, gently steal my lips along, 

:; And let your lips in murmurs movt>, — 

D Ah, no ! — again — that kiss was wrong, — 

How can you be so dull, my love ? 

ly' Cease, cease !" the blushing girl replied — 
j \ And in her milky arms she caught me — 

■ T How can you thus your pupil chide ; 

' You know H was in the dark you taught me ! 






TO MISS 



ON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD 
SLEEPLESS NIGHTS. 

I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies, 
And in thy breath his pinion dips, 

Who suns him in thy lucent eyes, 
And faints upon thy sighing lips : 



LITTLE'S POEMS. 



279 



I'll ask him where 's the veil of sleep 
That used to shade thy looks of light ; 

And why those eyes their vigil keep, 
When other suns are sunk in night. 

And I will say — her angel breast 

Has never throbb'd with guilty sting; 

Her bosom is the sweetest nest 
Where Slumber could repose his wing ! 

And I will say — her cheeks of flame, 
Which glow like roses in the sun, 

Have never felt a blush of shame, 
Except for what her eyes have done ! 

Then tell me, why, thou child of air ! 

Does Slumber from her eyelids rove ? 
What is her heart's impassioned care ? — 

Perhaps, oh, sylph ! perhaps 't is love! 



NONSENSE. 

Good reader! if you e'er have seen, 

\yhen Phoebus hastens to Ms pillow, 
The mermaids, with their tresses green, 

Dancing upon the western billow: 
If you have seen, at twilight dim, 
When the lone spirit's vesper hymn 

Floats wild along the winding shore : 
If you have seen, through mist of eve, 
The fairy train their ringlets weave, 
Glancing along the spangled green : — 

If you have seen all this, and more, 
God bless me ! what a deal you 've seen ! 



TO JULIA. 

ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 

When Time was entwining the garland of years, 
Which to crown my beloved was given, 

Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears, 
Yet the flowers were all gather'd in heaven ! 

And long may this garland be sweet to the eye, 

May its verdure for ever be new ! 
Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh, 

And Pity shall nurse it with dew ! 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 1 

How sweetly could I lay my head 
Within the cold grave's silent breast ; 

Where Sorrow's tears no more are shed, 
No more the ills of life molest. 

For, ah ! my heart, how very soon 

The glittering dreams of youth are past ! 

And, long before it reach its noon, 
The sun of life is overcast. 



1 This poem, and some others of the same pensive cast, 
we may suppose, were the result of the few melancholy 
moments which a life so short and so pleasant as that of the 
author could have allowed. — E, 



TO ROSA. 

A far conserva, e cumulo d' amanti. — Pent. Fid. 

And are you then a thing of art, 
Seducing all and loving none ? 

And have I strove to gain a heart 
Which every coxcomb thinks his own ? 

And do you, like the dotard's fire, 
Which powerless of enjoying any, 

Feeds its abortive sick desire, 
By trifling impotent with many ? 

Do you thus seek to flirt a number 
And through a round of danglers run, 

Because your heart's insipid slumber 
Could never wake to feel lor one. 

Tell me at once i r this be true, 

And I shall calm my jealous breast ; 

Shall learn to join the dangling crew, 
And share your simpers with the rest. 

But if your heart be not so free, — 
Oh ! if another share that heart, 

Tell not the damning tale to me, 
But mingle mercy with your art 

I'd rather think you black as hell, 
Than find you to be all divine, 

And know that heart could love so well, 
Yet know that heart would not be mine ! 



LOVE IN A STORM 

Q,uam juvat intimites ventos audire cubantem, 
Et doininain tenero coutinuisse sinu. Tibullus. 

Loud sung the wind in the ruins above, 

Which murmur'd the warnings of time o'er out 
head ; 
While fearless we offer'd devotions to Love, 

The rude rock our pillow, the rushes our bed. 

Damp was the chill of the wintry air, 

But it made us cling closer, and warmly unite 

Dread was the lightning, and horrid its glare, 
But it show'd me my Julia in languid delight. 

To my bosom she nestled, and felt not a fear, 

Though the shower did beat, and the tempest did 
frown : 

Her sighs were as sweet, and her murmurs as dear r 
As if she lay lull'd on a pillow of down ! 



SONG. 

Jessy on a bank was sleeping, 
A flower beneath her bosom lay ; 

Love, upon her slumber creeping, 
Stole the flower and flew away ! 

Pity, then, poor Jessy's ruin, 
Who, becalm'd by Slumber's wing. 

Never felt what Love was doing — 
Never dream'd of such a thing. 



880 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



THE SURPRISE. 

Cheoris, I swear, by all I ever swor% 
That from this hour I shall not love thee more. — 
tt What ! love no more ? Oh ! why this alter'd vow ?' 
Because I cannot love thee more — than now! 



TO A SLEEPING MAID. 

Wake, my life ! thy lover's arms 
Are twined around thy sleeping charms : 
Wake, my love ! and let desire 
Kindle those opening orbs of fire. 

Yet, sweetest, though the bliss delight thee, 
If the guilt, the shame affright thee, 
Still those orbs in darkness keep ; 
Sleep, my girl, or seem to sleep. 



TO PHILLIS. 

Phillis, you little rosy rake, 
That heart of yours I long to rifle 

Come, give it me, and do not make 
So much ado about a trifle ! 



SONG. 

When the heart's feeling 

Burns with concealing, 
Glances will tell what we fear to confess : 

Oh ! what an anguish 

Silent to languish, 
Could we not look all we wish to express ! 

When half-expiring, 

Restless, desiring, 
Lovers wish something, but must not say what, 

Looks tell the wanting, 

Looks tell the granting, 
Looks betray all that the heart would be at. 



THE BALLAD. 1 

Thou hast sent me a flowery band, 

And told me 't was fresh from the field ; 

That the leaves were untouch'd by the hand, 
And the purest of odours would yield. 

And indeed it was fragrant and fair ; 

But, if it were handled by thee, 
It would bloom with a livelier air, 

And would surely be sweeter to me ' 

Then take it, and let it entwine 
Thy tresses, so flowing and bright ; 

And each little flow'ret will shine 
More rich than a gem to my sight. 

I This ballad was probably suggested by the following 
Epigram in Martial : 

Intactas quare mittis mini, Polla, coronas, 
A te vexatas nialo tenere rosas. 

Epig. xc. lib. 11.— E. 



Let the odorous gale of thy breath 
Embalm it with many a sigh ; 

Nay, let it be wither'd to death 

Beneath the warm noon of thine eye. 

And instead of the dew that it bears. 

The dew dropping fresh from the tree, 
On its leaves let me number the tears 

That affection has stolen from thee ! 



TO MRS. 



ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF 
VOITURE'S KISS. 

Mori ame sur ma levre eiait lors toute entiere, 
Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre etait; 
Mais en me retirant, elle resta derriere, 
Tant de ce deux plaisir l'amorce Tarretoit! VoiL. 

How heavenly was the poet's doom, 
To breath his spirit through a kiss ; 

And lose within so sweet a tomb 
The trembling messenger of bliss ! 

And, ah ! his soul return'd to feel 

That it again could ravish'd be ; 
For in the kiss that thou didst steal, 

His life and soul have fled to thee ! 



TO A LADY. 

ON HER SINGING. 

Thy song has taught my heart to feel 
Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love, 

Which o'er the sainted spirits steal 
When hst'ning to the spheres above ! 

When, tired of life and misery, 
I wish to sigh my latest breath, 

Oh, Emma ! I will fly to thee, 
And thou shalt sing me into death ! 

And if along thy lip and cheek 

That smile of heavenly softness play, 

Which, — ah ! forgive a mind that 's weak, — 
So oft has stolen my mind away ; 

Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky, 
That comes to charm me into bliss : 

I'll gaze and die — who would not die, 
If death were half so sweet as this ? 



A DREAM. 

I thought this heart consuming lay 
On Cupid's burning shrine : 

I thought he stole thy heart away, 
And placed it near to mine. 

I saw thy heart begin to melt, 

Like ice before the sun ; 
Till both a glow congenial felt, 

And mingled into one ' 



LITTLE'S POEMS. 281 






But kiss me, kiss me while I die, 


WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK, 


And, oh ! I live again ! 




CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES," 


Still, my love ! with looking kill, 




In which every one that opened it should contribute 


And, oh ! revive with kisses still ! 




something. 






THE TEAR. 


TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES 


This tribute 's from a wretched elf, 


On beds of snow the moonbeam slept, 




Who hails thee emblem of himself! 


And chilly was the midnight gloom, 




The book of life, which I have traced, 


When by the damp grave Ellen wept — 




Has been, like thee, a motley waste 


Sweet maid ! it was her Lindors tomb ! 




Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, 






One folly bringing hundreds more. 


A warm tear gush'd — the wintry air 




Some have indeed been writ so neat, / 


Congeal'd it as it flow'd away : 




In characters so fair, so sweet, 


All night it lay an ice-drop there, 




That those who judge not too severely 


At morn it glitter'd in the ray ! 




Have said they loved such follies dearly ! 
Yet still, book ! the allusion stands ; 
For these were penn'd by female hands; 
The rest, — alas ! I own the truth, — 
Have all been scribbled so uncouth, 


An angel, wandering from her sphere, 
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, 

To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear, 
And hung it on her diadem ! 


** 


That prudence, with a withering look, 
Disdainful flings away the book. 








Like thine, its pages here and there 


TO 




Have oft been stain'd with blots of care ; 






And sometimes hours of peace, I own, 


In bona cur quisquam tertius ista venit? — Ovid 




Upon some fairer leaves have shone, 







White as the snowings of that Heaven 


So ! Rosa turns her back on me, 




By which those hours of peace were given 


Thou walking monument ! for thee ; 




But now no longer — such, oh ! such 


Whose visage, like a grave-stone scribbled, 




The blast of Disappointment's touch ! 


With vanity bedaub'd, befribbled, 




No longer now those hours appear ; 


Tells only to the reading eye, 




Each leaf is sullied by a tear : 


That underneath corrupting lie, 




Blank, blank is every page with care ; 


Within thy heart's contagious tomb 




Not e'en a folly brightens there. 


(As in a cemetery's gloom,) 




Will they yet brighten ? — Never, never ! 


Suspicion, rankling to infection, 




Then shut the book, God ! for ever ! 


And all the worms of black reflection ! 

And thou art Rosa's dear elect, 
And thou hast won the lovely trifle ; 






WRITTEN IN THE SAME. 


And I must bear repulse, neglect, 




TO THE PRETTY LITTLE MRS 


And I must all my anguish stifle : 
While thou for ever linger'st nigh, 




IMPROMPTU. 







Scowling, muttering, gloating, mumming 




Magifl venustatem an brevhatem mireris incertum est. 


Like some sharp, busy, fretful fly, 




Macrob. Sat. lib. ii. cap. 2. 
This journal of folly 's an emblem of me ; 


About a twinkling taper humming 








But what book shall we find emblematic of thee ? 


TO JULIA 




Oh! shall we not say thou art Love's duodecimo ? 




None can be prettier, few can be less, you know. 


WEEPING. 




Such a volume in sheets were a volume of charms ; 


Oh ! if your tears are given to care, 




Or, if bound, it should only be bound in our arms ! 


If real woe disturbs your peace, 
Come to my bosom, weeping fair ! 
And I will bid your weeping cease 








SONG. 


But if with Fancy's vision'd fears, 




Dear ! in pity do not speak ; 


With dreams of woe your bosom thrill , 




In your eyes I read it all, 


You look so lovely in your tears, 




In the flushing of your cheek, 


That I must bid you drop them still • 




In those tears that fall. 






Yes, yes, my soul ! I see 







You love, you live for only me ! 


SONG. 




Beam, yet beam that killing eve, 


Have you not seen the timid tear 




Bid me expire in luscious pain ; 


Steal trembling from mine eye 




2 N 







282 



MOORE'S WORKS 



Have you not mark'd the flush of fear, 
Or caught the murmur'd sigh ? 

And can you think my love is chill, 
Nor fix'd on you alone ? 

And can you rend, by doubting still, 
A heart so much your own ? 

To you my soul's affections move 

Devoutly, warmly true ; 
My life has been a task of love, 

One long, long thought of you. 
If all your tender faith is o'er, 

If still my truth you'll try ; 
Alas ! I know but one proof more,— 

I'll bless your name, and die ! 



THE SHIELD. 1 
Oh ! did you not hear a voice of death ? 

And did you not mark the paly form 
Which rode on the silver mist of the heath, 

And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm ? 

Was it a wailing bird of the gloom, 
Which shrieks on the house of woe all night ? 

Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb, 
To howl and to feed till the glance of light ? 

'T was not the death-bird's cry from the wood, 
Nor shivering fiend that hung in the blast ; 

'T was the shade of Helderic — man of blood- 
It screams for the guilt of days that are past ! 

See how the red, red lightning strays, 

And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath ! 

Now on the leafless yew it plays, 
Where hangs tne shield of this son of death ! 

That shield is blushing with murderous stains ; 

Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray ; 
It is blown by storms and wash'd by rains, 

But neither can take the blood away ! 

Oft by that yew, on the blasted field, 
Demons dance to the red moon's light ; 

While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging 
shield 
Sings to the raving spirit of night ! 



TO MRS. 



Yes, Heaven can witness how I strove 
To love thee with a spirit's love ; 
To make thy purer wish my own, 
And mingle with thy mind alone. 
Oh ! I appeal to those pure dreams 
In which my soul has hung on thee, 
And I've forgot thy witching form, 
And I've forgot the liquid beams 
That eye effuses, thrilling warm — 
Yes, yes, forgot each sensual charm, 
Each madd'ning spell of luxury, 
That could seduce my soul's desires, 
And bid it throb with guiltier fires.— 



1 This poem is perfectly in the taste of the present day- 
l his nam plubecula gaudet." — E. 



Such was my love, and many a time, 
When sleep has given thee to my breast, 
And thou hast seem'd to share the crime 
Which made thy lover wildly blest ; 
E'en then, in all that rich delusion, 
When, by voluptuous visions fired, 
My soul, in rapture's warm confusion, 
Has on a phantom's lip expired ! 
E'en then some purer thoughts would 
Amid my senses' warm excess ; 
And at the moment — oh ! e'en then 
I've started from thy melting press, 
And blush'd for all I've dared to feel, 
Yet sigh'd to feel it all again ! — 
Such was my love, and still, O still 
I might have calm'd the unholy thrill •. 
My heart might be a taintless shrine, 
And thou its votive saint should be : 
There, there I'd make thee all divine, 
Myself divine in honouring thee. 
But, oh ! that night ! that fatal night ! 
When both bewilder' d, both betray'd, 
We sank beneath the flow of soul, 
Which for a moment mock'd control ; 
And on the dangerous kiss delay'd, 
And almost yielded to delight ! 
God ! how I wish'd, in that wild hour, 
That lips alone, thus stamp'd with heat 
Had for a moment all the power 
To make our souls effusing meet ! 
That we might mingle by the breath 
In all of love's delicious death ; 
And in a kiss at once be blest, 
As, oh ! we trembled at the rest I 
Pity me, love ! I '11 pity thee, 
If thou indeed hast felt like me. 
All, all my bosom's peace is o'er ! 
At night, which was my hour of calm, 
When from the page of classic lore, 
From the pure fount of ancient lay, 
My soul had drawn the placid balm 
Which charm' d its little griefs away ; 
Ah ! there I find that balm no more. 
Those spells, which make us oft forget 
The fleeting troubles of the day, 
In deeper sorrows only whet 
The stings they cannot tear away. 
When to my pillow rack'd I fly, 
With wearied sense and wakeful eye, 
While my brain maddens, where, O where 
Is that serene consoling prayer, 
Which once has harbinger'd my rest, 
When the still soothing voice of Heaven 
Has seem'd to whisper in my breast, 
" Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven !" 
No, though I still in semblance prav, 
My thoughts are wandering far away, 
And e'en the name of Deity 
Is murmur'd out in sighs for thee !' 



1 This irregular recurrence of the rhymes is adopted from 
the light poetry of the French, and is, I think, particularly 
suited to express the varieiies of feeling. In gentler emo- 
tions, the verses may flow periodic and regular; and in the 
transition to violent passion, can assume all the animated 
abruptness of blank verse. Besides, by dispensing wi«J» the 



LITTLE'S POEMS. 



283 



ELEGIAC STANZAS, 

UPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA ON 
DEATH OF HER BROTHER. 

Though soirow long has worn my heart ; 

Though every day I 've counted o'er 
Has brought a new and quickening smart 

To wounds that rankled fresh before ; 

Though in my earliest life bereft 
Of many a link by nature tied ; 
Though hope deceived, and pleasure left ; 
. Though friends betray'd, and foes belied ; 

I still had hopes — for hope will stay 

After the sunset of delight ; 
So like the star which ushers day, 

We scarce can think it heralds night ! 

I hoped that, after all its strife, 

My weary heart at length should rest, 

And, fainting from the waves of life, 
Find harbour in a brother's breast. 

That brother's breast was warm with truth, 
Was bright with honour's purest ray ; 

He was the dearest, gentlest youth — 
Oh ! why then was he torn away ? 

He should have stay'd, have linger'd here, 

To calm his Julia's every woe ; 
He should have chased each bitter tear, 

Apd not have caused those tears to flow. 

We saw his youthful soul expand 
In blooms of genius, nursed by taste ; 

While Science, with a fostering hand, 
Upon his brow her chaplet placed. 

We saw his gradual opening mind 
Eiirich'd by all the graces dear; 

Enlighten'd, social, and refined, 
In friendship firm, in love sincere. 

Such was the youth we loved so well ; 

Such were the hopes that fate denied — 
We loved, but, ah ! we could not tell 

How deep, how dearly, till he died ! 

Close as the fondest links could strain, 
Twined with my very heart he grew ; 

And by that fate which breaks the chain, 
The heart is almost broken too ! 



FANNY OF T1MMOL. 

A MAIL-COACH ADVENTURE. 



Quadrigis petimus bene vivere. 



Horace. 



Sweet Fanny of Timmol ! when first you came in 
To the close little carriage in which I was hurl'd, 

I thought to myself, it" it were not a sin, 
I could teach you the prettiest tricks in the world. 



limits of distich and stnnza, it allows an interesting suspen- 
sion of the sentiment. — E. 



For your dear little lips, to their destiny true, 
Seem'd to know they were born for the use of an- 
other ; 

And, to put me in mind of what I ought to do, 
Were eternally biting and kissing each other. 

And then you were darting from eyelids so sly,— 
Half open, half shutting, — such t remulous light : 

Let them say what they will, I could read in your eye 
More comical things than I ever shall write. 

And oft, as we mingled our legs and our feet, 
I felt a pulsation, and cannot tell whether 

In yours or in mine — but I know it was sweet, 
And I think we both felt it and trembled together. 

At length when arrived, at our supper we sat, 
I heard with a sigh, which had something of pain, 

That perhaps our last moment of meeting was that. 
And Fanny should go back to Timmol again. 

Yet I swore not that I was in love with you Fanny, 
Oh, no ! for I felt it could never be true ; 

I but said — what I 've said very often to many — 
There 's few I would rather be kissing than you. 

Then first did I learn that you once had believed 
Some lover, the dearest and falsest of men ; 

And so gently you spoke of the youth who deceived, 
That I thought you perhaps might be tempted 
again. 

But you told me that passion a moment amused, 
Was follow'd too oft by an age of repenting; 

And check'd me so softly that, while you refused, 
Forgive me, dear girl, if I thought 't was consenting ! 

And still I entreated, and still you denied, 

Till I almost was made to believe you sincere; 
Though I found that, in bidding me leave you, you 
sigh'd, 
And when you repulsed me, 't was done with a 
tear. 

In vain did I whisper, " There 's nobody nigh ;" 
In vain with the tremors of passion implore ; 

Your excuse was a kiss, and a tear your reply — 
I acknowledged them both, and I ask'd for no 
more. 

Was I right ? — oh ! I cannot believe I was wrong. 

Poor Fanny is gone back to Timmol again ; 
And may Providence guide her uninjured along, 

Nor scatter her path with repentance and pain ! 

By Heaven ! I would rather for ever forswear 
The Elysium that dwells on a beautiful breast, 

Than alarm for a moment the peace that is there, 
Or banish the dove from so hallow' d a nest ! 



A NIGHT THOUGHT. 

How oft a cloud with envious veil, 
Obscures your bashful light, 

Which seems so modestly to steal 
Along the waste of night! 



284 



MOORE S WORKS. 



'T is thus the world's obtrusive wrongs 

Obscure with malice keen 
Some timid heart, which only longs 

To live and die unseen ! 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 

Sic juv;it perire. 

When wearied wretches sink to sleep, 
How heavenly soft their slumbers lie ! 

How sweet is death to those who weep, 
To those who weep and long to die ! 

Saw you the soft and grassy bed, 

Where flow'rets deck the green earth's breast ? 
*T is there I wish to lay my head, 

'T is there I wish to sleep at rest ! 

Oh ! let not tears embalm my tomb, 
None but the dews by twilight given ! 

Oh ! let not sighs disturb the gloom, 
None but the whispering winds of Heaven ! 



THE KISS. 

Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss, 

On which my soul's beloved swore 
That there should come a time of bliss 

When she would mock my hopes no more : 
And fancy shall thy glow renew, 

In sighs at morn, and dreams at night, 
And none shall steal thy holy dew 

Till thou 'rt absolved by rapture's rite. 
Sweet hours that are to make me blest, 

Oh ! fly, like breezes, to the goal, 
And let my love, my more than soul, 

Come panting to this fever'd breast , 
And while in every glance I drink 

The rich o'erflowings of her mind, 
Oh ! let her all impassion'd sink, 

In sweet abandonment resign'd, 
Blushing for all our struggles past, 
And murmuring, " I am thine at last !" 



TO 



/ 



With all my sojal, then, let us part, 
Since both are anxious f o be free ; 

And I will send you home your heart, 
If you will send back mine to me. 

We 've had some happy hours together, 
But joy must often change its wing ; 

And spring would be but gloomy weather, 
If we had nothing else but spring. 

'T is not that I expect to find 
A more devoted, fond, and true one, 

With rosier cheek or sweeter mind — 
Enough for me that she 's a new one. 

Thus let us leave the bower of love, 
Where we have loiter'd long in bliss ; 



And you may down that path-way rove, 
While I shall take my way through this 

Our hearts have sufFer'd little harm 

In this short fever of desire ; 
You have not lost a single charm, 

Nor I one spark of feeling fire. 

My kisses have not stain'd the rose 
Which NaKfre hung upon your lip ; 

And still your sigh with nectar flows 
For many a raptured soul to sip. 

Farewell ! and when some other fair 
Shall call your wanderer to her arms, 

'T will be my luxury to compare 
Her spells with your remember'd charms 

" This cheek," I'll say, "is not so bright 
As one that used to meet my kiss ; 

This eye has not such liquid light JM 
As one that used to talk of bliss™ 

Farewell ! and when some future lover 
Shall claim the heart which I resign, 

And in exulting joys discover 

All the charms that once were mine ; 

I think I should be sweetly blest, 

If, in a soft imperfect sigh, 
You 'd say, while to his bosom prest, 

He loves not half so well as I! 



A REFLECTION AT SEA. 

See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile, 
Yon little billow heaves its breast, 

And foams and sparkles for a while, 
And murmuring then subsides to rest. 

Thus man, the sport of bliss and care, 
Rises on Time's eventful sea ; 

And, having swell'd a moment there, 
Thus melts into eternity ! 



AN INVITATION TO SUPPER 

TO MRS. . ^ 

Myself, dear Julia ! and the Sun, 
Have now two years of rambling run ; 
And he before his wheels has driven 
The grand menagerie of heaven, 
While I have met on earth, I swear, 
As many brutes as he has there. 
The only difference I can see 
Betwixt the flaming god and me, 
Is, that his ways are periodic, 
And mine, I fear, are simply oddic. 
But, dearest girl ! 't is now a lapse 
Of two short years, or less, perhaps, 
Since you to me, and I to you, 
Vow'd to be ever fondly true! — 
Ah, Julia ! those were pleasant times ! 
You loved me for my amorous rhymes ■ 
And I loved you, because I thought 
'T was so delicious to be taught 



LITTLE'S POEMS. 28 


By such a charming guide as you, 


While even the planets seem'd to wink, — 


With eyes of fire and lips of dew, 


We kept our vigils of delight ? 


All I had often fancied o'er, 

But never, never felt befce : 

The day flew by, and night was short 

For half our blisses, half our sport ! 


The heart, that little world of ours, 
Unlike the drowsy world of care, 
Then, then awaked its sweetest powers, 




And all was animation there ! 


I know not how we chang'd, or why, 




Or if the first was you or I : 


Kiss me once mere, and then I fly, 


Yet so 't is now, we meet each other, 
And I 'm no more than Julia's brother ; 


Our parting would to noon-day last ; 
There, close that languid trembling eye, 


While she 's so like my prudent sister, 


And sweetly dream of all the past ! 


There 's few would think how close I 've kiss'd her. 


As soon as Night shall fix her seal 


But, Julia, let those matters pass ! 


Upon the eyes and lips of men, 
Oh, dearest ! I will panting steal 
To nestle in thine arms again ! 


If you will brim a sparkling glass 
To vanish'd hours of true delight, 


Come to me after dusk to-night. 


Our joys shall take their stolen flight, 


I '11 have no other guest to meet you, 


Secret as those celestial spheres 


But here alone I '11 tete-a-tete you, 
Over a little attic feast, 


Which make sweet music all the night, 


Unheard by drowsy mortal ears ! 


As full of cordial soul at least, 

As those where Delia met Tibullus, 






Or Lesbia wanton'd with Catullus. 1 


SONG.' 


I '11 sing you many a roguish sonnet 


Oh ! nothing in life can sadden us, 


About it, at it, and upon it : 


While we have wine and good humour in store , 


And songs address'd, as if I loved, 


With this, and a little of love to madden us, 


To all the girls with whom I 've roved. 


Show me the fool that can labour for more ! 


Come, pr'ythee come, you '11 find me here, 


Come, then, bid Ganymede fill every bowl for you, 


Like Horace, waiting for his dear. 2 


Fill them up brimmers, and drink as I call : 


There shall not be to-night, on earth, 


I'm going to toast every nymph of my soul for you, 


Two souls more elegant in mirth ; 


Ay, on my soul, I 'm in love with them all ! 


\nd though our hey-day passion 's fled, 
The spirit of the love that 's dead 
Shall hover wanton o'er our head ; 


Dear creatures ! we can't live without them, 


They 're all that is sweet and seducing to man ! 


Like souls that round the grave will fly, 
In which their late possessors lie : 


Looking, sighing about and about them, 
We dote on them, die for them, all that we can. 


And who, my pretty Julia, knows, 


Here 's Phillis ! — whose innocent bosom 


But when our warm remembrance gl^ws, 


Is always agog for some novel desires ; 


The ghost of Love may act anew, 


To-day to get lovers, to-morrow to lose 'em, 


What Love when living used to do . 


Is all that the innocent Phillis requires. — 




Here 's to the gay little Jessy ! — who simpers 


"*- ■" ~~ ™ 


So vastly good humour' d, whatever is done ; 


' AN ODE UPON MORNING. 


She '11 kiss you, and that without whining or whimpers, 




And do what you please with you — all out of fua* 


Turn to me, love ! the morning rays 


Dear creatures, etc. 


Are glowing o^er thy languid charms ; 




Take one luxurious parting gaze, 


A bumper to Fanny ! — I know you will scorn her, 


While yet I linger in thine arms. 


Because she 's a prude, and her nose is so curl'd ; 




But if ever you chatted with Fan in a corner, 


'Twas long before the noon of night 


You 'd say she 's the best little girl in the world !— 


I stole into thy bosom, dear ! 


Another to Lyddy ! — still struggling with duty, 


And now the glance of dawning light 


And asking her conscience still, "whether sho 


Has found me still in dalliance here. 


should;" 


Turn to me, love ! the trembling gleams 


While her eyes, in the silent confession of beauty 


Of morn along thy white neck stray ; 
Away, away, you envious beams, 


Say, " Only for something I certainly would ." 
Dear creatures, etc 


I '11 chase you with my lips away ! 


Fill for Chloe ! — bewitchingly simple, 


Oh ! is it not divine to think,— 


Who angles the heart without knowing her lure ' 


While all around were lull'd in night 


Still wounding around with a blush or a dimple, 


Nor seeming to feel that she also could cure !-- 


1 Coenam, non sine Candida puella. 

Cat. Carm. xiii. 


1 There are many spurious copies of this song in circuia 




tion ; and it is universally attributed to a gentleman who ha* 
no more right than the Editor of these Poems to any snar« 


^ Ad mediam noctem expecto. 


Hot. lib. i. sat. 5. 


whatever in the composition. — E. 


( 


I 



236 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Here 's pious Susan ! — the saint, who alone, sir, 
Could ever have made me religious outright : 

For had I such a dear little saint of my own, sir, 
I 'd pray on my knees to her half the long night ! 
Dear creatures, etc. 



Come tell me where the maid is found 
Whose heart can love without deceit, 

And I will range the world around, 
To sigh one moment at her feet. 

Oh ! tell me where 's her sainted home, 
What air receives her blessed sigh ; 

A pilgrimage of years I '11 roam 
To catch one sparkle of her eye ! 

And, if her cheek be rosy bright, 
While truth within her bosom lies, 

I '11 gaze upon her, morn and night, 
Till my heart leave me through my eyes ! 

Show me on earth a thing so rare, 

I '11 own all miracles are true ; 
To make one maid sincere and fair, 

Oh ! 't is the utmost Heaven can do ! 



SONG. 1 

Sweetest love ! I '11 not forget thee ; 

Time shall only teach my heart, 
Fonder, warmer, to regret thee, 

Lovely, gentle as thou art ! — 
Farewell, Bessy ! 

Yet, oh ! yet again we Ml meet, love, 
A*id repose our hearts at last : 

Oh ! sure 't will then be sweet, love, 
Calm to think on sorrows past. — 
Farewell, Bessy ! 

Yes, my girl, the distant blessing 
May n't be always sought in vain ; 

And the moment of possessing — 
Will 't not, love, repay our pain ?— 
Farewell, Bessy ! 

Still I feel my heart is breaking, 
When I think I stray from thee, 

Round the world that quiet seeking, 
Which I fear is not for me ! — 
Farewell, Bessy ! 

Calm to peace thy lover's bosom— 
Can it, dearest ! must it be ? 

Thou within an hour shalt lose hirn, 
He for ever loses thee ! 
Farewell, Bessy ! 



SONG. 



If I swear by that eye, you '11 allow 
Its look is so shifting and new, 



1 All these songs were adapted to airs which Mr. Little 
composed, and sometimes sang, for his friends: this may 
account for the peculiarity of metre observable in many of 
tijcip. — E 



That the oath I might take on it now 
The very next glance would undo ! 

Those babies that nestle so sly 

Such different arrows have got, 
That an oath, on the glance of an eye 

Such as yours, may be off in a shot ! 

Should I swear by the dew on your lip, 
Though each moment the treasure renews, 

If my constancy wishes to trip, 
I may kiss off the oath when I choose ! 

Or a sigh may disperse from that flower 
The dew and the oath that are there ! 

And I 'd make a new vow every hour, 
To lose them so sweetly in air ! 

But clear up that heaven of your brow 
Nor fancy my faith is a feather ; 

On my heart I will pledge you my vow, 
And they both must be broken together ' 



JULIA'S KISS. 

When infant Bliss in roses slept, 
Cupid upon his slumber crept ; 
And, while a balmy sigh he stole, 
Exhaling from the infant's soul, 
He smiling said, " With this, with this 
I'll scent my Julia's burning kiss !" 

Nay, more ; he stole to Venus' bed, 
Ere yet the sanguine flush had fled, 
Which Love's divinest, dearest flame 
Had kindled through her panting frame. 
Her soul still dwelt on memory's themes, 
Still floated in voluptuous dreams; 
And every joy she felt before 
In slumber now was acting o'er. 
From her ripe lips, which seem'd to thrill 
As in the war of kisses still, 
And amorous to each other clung, 
He stole the dew that trembling hung, 
And smiling said, " With this, with this 
I'll bathe my Julia's burning kiss !" 



TO 



Remember him thou leavest behind, 
Whose heart is warmly bound to thee, 

Close as the tenderest links can bind 
A heart as warm as heart can be. 

Oh ! I had long in freedom roved, 
Though many seem'd my soul to share 

'T was passion when I thought I loved, 
*T was fancy when I thought them fair. 

E'en she, my Muse's early theme, 
Beguiled me only while she warm'd ; 

'T was young desire that fed the dream, 
And reason broke what passion form d 

But thou — ah ! better had it been 
If I had still in freedom roved. 



LITTLE'S POEMS. 



•287 



If I had ne'er thy beauties seen, 
For then I never should have loved ! 

Then all the pain which lovers feel 
Had never to my heart been known ; 

But, ah ! the joys which lovers steal, 
Should they have ever been my own ? 

Oh ! trust me, when I swear thee this, 
Dearest ! the pain of loving thee, 

The very pain, is sweeter bliss 
Than passion's wildest ecstasy ! 

That little cage I would not part, 
In which my soul is prison'd now, 

For the most light and winged heart 
That wantons on the passing vow. 

Still, my beloved ! still keep in mind, 
However far removed from me, 

That there is one thou leavest behind 
Whose heart respires for only thee ! 

And, though ungenial ties have bound 
Thy fate unto another's care, 

That arm, which clasps thy bosom round, 
Cannot confine the heart that 's there. 

No, no ! that heart is only mine, 

By ties all other ties above, 
For I have wed it at a shrine 

Where we have had no priest but Love 



SONG 

Fly from the world, O Bessy ! to me, 

Thou'lt never find any sincerer ; 
I'll give up the world, O Bessy ! for thee, 

I can never meet any that 's dearer ! 
Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh, 

That our loves will be censured by many ; 
All, all have their follies, and who will deny 

That ours is the sweetest of any? 

When your lip has met mine, in abandonment sweet, 

Have we felt as if virtue forbid it ?— - 
Have we felt as if Heaven denied them to meet ? — 

No, rather 't was Heaven that did it ! 
So innocent, love ! is the pleasure we sip, 

So little of guilt is there in it, 
That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip, 

And I'd kiss them away in a minute ! 

Then come to your lover, oh ! fly to his shed, 

From a world which I know thou despisest ; 
And slumber will hover as light on our bed, 

As e'er on the couch of the wisest ! 
And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven, 

And thou, pretty innocent ! fearest, 
I'll tell thee, it is not the chiding of Heaven, 

'T is only our lullaby, dearest ! 

And, oh ! when we lie on our death-bed, my love ! 

Looking back on the scene of our errors, 
A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then above, 

And Death be disarm'd of his terrors ! 
And each to the other embracing will say, 

M Farewell ! let us hope we're forgiven !" 



Thy last fading glance will illumine the way, 
And a kiss be our passport to heaven ! 



SONG. 

Think on that look of hurr.id ray, 
Which for a moment mix'd with mine, 

And for that moment seem'd ill say, 
"I dare not, or I would be thine !" 

Think, think on every smile and glance, 
On all thou hast to charm and move ; 

And then forgive my bosom s trance, 
And tell me 't is not sin to love ! 

Oh ! not to love thee were the sin ; 

For sure, if Heaven's decrees be done, 
Thou, thou art destined still to win, 

As I was destined to be won ! 



SONG 
A captive thus to thee, my girl, 

How sweetly shall I pass my age, 
Contented, like the playful squirrel, 

To wanton up and down my cage. 

When Death shall envy joy like this, 
And come to shade our sunny weather, 

Be our last sigh the sigh of bliss, 
And both our souls exhale together ! 



THE CATALOGUE. 

" Come, tell me," says Rosa, as, kissing and kiss'd. 

One day she reclined on my breast ; 
" Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list 

Of the nymphs you have loved and caress'd.''— 
Oh, Rosa ! 't was only my fancy that roved, 

My heart at the moment was free ; 
But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved, 

And the number shall finish with thee ! 

My tutor was Kitty ; in infancy wild 

She taught me the way to be blest ; 
She taught me to love her, I loved like a child, 

But Kitty could fancy the rest. 
This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore 

I have never forgot, I allow ; 
I have had it by rote very often before, 

But never by heart until now ! 

Pretty Martha was next, and my soul w^as all flame, 

But my head was so full of romance, 
That I fancied her into some chivalry dame, 

And I was her knight of the lance ! 
But Martha was not of this fanciful school, 

And she laugh'd at her poor little knight ; 
While I thought her a goddess, she thougnt me a fool, 

And I'll swear she was most in the right. 

My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris's looks, 

Again I was tempted to rove ; 
But Cloris, I found, was so learned in books, 

That she gave me more logic than love '. 



283 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



So I left this young Sappho, and hasten'd to fly 
To those sweeter logicians in bliss, 

Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye, 
And convince us at once with a kiss ! 

Oh ! Susan was then all the world unto me; 

But Susan was piously given ; 
And the worst of it was, we could never agree 

On the road that was shortest to heaven ! 
* Oh, Susan !" I've said, in the moments of mirth, 
" What 's devotion to thee or to me ? 
devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth, 
And believe that that heaven 's in thee J" 
* * * 



A FRAGMENT. 
TO . 



*T is night, the spectred hour is nigh ! 
Pensive I hear the moaning blast 
Passing, with sad sepulchral sigh, 
My lyre that hangs neglected by, 
And seems to mourn for pleasures past ! 
That lyre was once attuned for thee 
To many a lay of fond delight, 
When all thy days were given to me, 
And mine was every blissful night. 
How oft I've languish'd by thy side, 
And while my heart's luxuriant tide 
Ran in wild riot through my veins, 
I've wak^d such sweetly-maddening strains, 
As if by inspiration's fire 
My soul was blended with my lyre ! 
Oh ! while in every fainting note 
We heard the soul of passion float 
While in thy blue dissolving glance, 
I've raptured read thy bosom's trance, 
I've sung and trembled, kiss'd and sung ; 
Till, as we mingle breath with breath, 
Thy burning kisses parch my tongue, 
My hands drop listless on the lyre, 
And, murmuring like a swan in death, 
Upon thy bosom I expire ! 
Yes, I indeed remember well 
Those hours of pleasure past and o er ; 
Why have I lived their sweets to tell ? 
To tell, but never feel them more ! 
I should have died, have sweetly died, 
In one of those impassion'd dreams, 
When languid, silent on thy breast, 
Drinking thine eyes' delicious beams, 
My soul has flutter'd from its nest, 
And on thy lip just parting sigh'd ! 
Oh ! dying thus a death of love, 
To heaven how dearly should I go ! 
He well might hope for joys above, 
Who had begun them here below ! 
***** 



SONG. 



\Vhere is the nymph, whose atfure eye 
Can shine through rapture's tear? 

The sun has sunk, the moon is high, 
Ana vet she comes not here ! 



Was that her footstep on the hill — 
Her voice upon the gale ? — 

No ; t' was the wind, and all is still : 
Oh, maid of Marlivale ! 

Come to me, love, I've wander'd far, 
'T is past the promised hour : 

Come to me, love, the twilight star 
Shall guide thee to my bower. 



SONG. 



When Time, who steals our years away, 

Shall steal our pleasures too, 
The memory of the past will stay, 

And half our joys renew. 

Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower 

Shall feel the wintry air, 
Remembrance will recall the hour 

When thou alone wert fair ! 

Then talk no more of future gloom ; 

Our joys shall always last; 
For hope shall brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past. 

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl, 

I drink to love and thee : 
Thou never canst decay in soul, 

Thou'lt still be young for me. 

And, as thy lips the tear-drop chase 
Which on my cheek they find, 

So hope shall steal away the trace 
Which sorrow leaves behind ! 

Then fill the bowl — away with gloom '. 

Our joys shall always last; 
For hope shall brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past ! 

But mark, at thought of future years 

When love shall lose its soul, 
My Chloe drops her timid tears, 

They mingle with my bowl ! 

How like this bowl of wine, my fair, 

Our loving life shall fleet ; 
Though tears may sometimes mingle ther«. 

The draught will still be sweet ! 

Then fill the bowl — away with gloom . 

Our joys shall always last ; 
For hope will brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past ! 



THE SHRINE. 

TO . 

My fates had destined me to rove 
A long, long pilgrimage of love j 
And many an altar on my way 
Has lured my pious steps to stay; 
For, if the saint was young and fair, 
I turn'd and sung my vespers there. 



LITTLE'S P0E3IS. 



289 



This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire, 
Is what your pretty saints require : 
To pass, nor tell a single bead, 
With them would be profane indeed! 
But, trust me, all this young devotion, 
Was but to keep my zeal in motion ; 
And, every humbler altar past, 
I now have reach'd the shelve at last ! 



REUBEN AND ROSE. 

A TALE OF ROMANCE. 

The darkness which hung upon Willumberg's walls 
Has long been remember'd with awe and dismay! 

For years not a sunbeam had play'd in its halls, 
And it seem'd as shut out from the regions of day : 

Though the valleys were brighten'd by many a beam, 
Yet none could the woods of the castle illume ; 

And the lightning which flash'd on the neighbouring 
stream 
Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom! 

n Oh '. when shall this horrible darkness disperse ?" 
Said Willumberg's lord to the seer of the cave ; — 

"It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse, 
"Till the bright star of chivalry's sunk in the wave !" 

And who was the bright star of chivalry then ? 

Who could be but Reuben, the flower of the age ? 
For Reuben was first in the combat of men,. 

Though Youth had scarce written his name on her 
page. 
For Willumberg's daughter his bosom had beat, 

For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn, 
When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet, 

It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn ! 

Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever ? 

Sad, sad were the words of the man in the cave, 
That darkness should cover the castle for ever, 

Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave ! 

She flew to the wizard — " And tell me, oh tell ! 

Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my 
eyes ?" — 
u Yes, yes — when a spirit shall toll the great bell 

Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise!" 

Twice, thrice he repeated, " Your Reuben shall rise !" 
And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain ; 

She wiped, while she listen'd, the tears from her eyes, 
And she hoped she might yet see her hero again ! 

Her hero could smile at the terrors of death, 
When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose ! 

To the Oder he flew, and there plunging beneath, 
In the lapse of the billows soon found his repose. — 

How strangely the order of destiny falls ! 

Not long in the waters the warrior lay, 
When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls, 

And the castle of Willumberg bask'd in the ray ! 

All, all but the soul of the maid was in light, 
There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank. 

Two days did she wander, and all the long night, 
In quest of her love on the wide river's bank 
20 



Oft, oft did she pause fo) the toll of the bell, 
And she heard but the breathings of night in the 
air ; 

Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, 
And she saw but the foam of the white billow there 

And often as midnight its veil would undraw, 

As she look'd at the light of the moon in the stream, 

She thought 't was his helmet of silver she saw, 
As the curl of the surge glitter'd high in the beam. 

And now the third night was begemming the sky, 
Poor Rose on the cold dewy margent reclined, 

There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye, 
When, — hark ! — 't was the bell that came deep in 
the wind ! 

She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade, 
A form o'er the waters in majesty glide ; 

She knew 't was her love, though his cheek was 
decay'd, 
And his helmet of silver was wash'd by the tide. 

Was this what the seer of the cave had foretold '.< — 
Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot s 
gleam ; 

'T was Reuben, but ah ! he was deathly and cold, 
And flitted away like the spell of a dream ! 

Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought 
From the bank to embrace him, but never, ah! 
never ! 

Then springing beneath, at a billow she caught, 
And sunk to repose on its bosom for ever ! 



THE RING.' 

A TALE. 
Annulus ille viri. — Ovid, rfmor. lib. ii. eleg. 15 

The happy day at length arrived 

When Rupert was to wed , 
The fairest maid in Saxony, 

And take her to his bed. 

As soon as morn was in the sky, 
, The feast and sports began ; 
The men admired the happy maid, 
The maids the happy man. 

In many a sweet device of mirth 

The day was pass'd along ; 
And some the featly dance amused, 

And some the dulcet song. 



1 I should be sorry to think that my friend had any seri- 
ous intentions of frightening the nursery by this story: I 
rather hope — though the manner of it leads me to doubt- 
that his design was to ridicule that distempered taste which 
prefers those monsters of the fancy to the "speciosa mira- 
cula" of true poetic imagination. 

I find, by a note in the manuscript, that he met wnh this 
story in a German author, Fromman upon Fascination, 
book iii. part. vi. chap. 18. On consulting .he work, [ per- 
ceive that Fromman quotes it from Beluacensis, among 
many other stories equally diaoolic?J and interesting.- -E. " 



290 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The younger maids with Isabel 
Disported through the bowers, . 

And deck'd her robe, and crown'd her head 
With motley bridal flowers. 

The matrons all in rich attire, 

Within the castle walls, 
Sat listening to the choral strains 

That echo'd through the halls. 

Young Rupert and his friends repair'd 

Unto a spacious court, 
To strike the bounding tennis-ball 

In feat and manly sport. 

The bridegroom on his finger had 

The wedding-ring so bright, 
Which was to grace the lily hand 

Of Isabel that night. 

And fearing he might break the gem, 

Or lose it in the play, 
He look'd around the court, to see 

Where he the ring might lay. 

Now in the court a statue stood, 
Which there full long had been ; 

It was a heathen goddess, or 
Perhaps a heathen queen. 

Upon its marble finger then 

He tried the ring to fit ; 
And, thinking it was safest there, 

Thereon he fasten'd it. 

And now the tennis sports went on, 

Till they were wearied all, 
And messengers announced to them 

Their dinner in the hall. 

Young Rupert for his wedding-ring 

Unto the statue went ; 
But, oh ! how was he shock'd to find 

The marble finger bent ! 

• 

The hand was closed upon the ring 

With firm and mighty clasp ; 
In vain he tried, and tried, and tried, 

He could not loose the grasp ! 

How sore surprised was Rupert's mind, — 

As well his mind might be ; 
u I'll come," quoth he, " at night again, 

When none are here to see." 

He went unto the feast, and much 

He thought upon his ring ; 
And much he wonder'd what could mean 

So very strange a thing ! 

The feast was o'er, and to the court 

He went without delay, 
Resolved to break the marble hand, 

And force the ring away I 

But mark a stranger wonder still— 

The ring was there no more ; 
Yet was the marble hand ungrasp'd, 

And open as before ! 



He search'd the base, and all the court, 

And nothing could he find, 
But to the castle did return 

With sore bewilder'd mind. 

Within he found them all in mirth, 

The night in dancing flew ; 
The youth another ring procured, 

And none the adventure knew. 

And now the priest has join'd their hands, 

The hours of love advance! 
Rupert almost forgets to think 

Upon the morn's mischance. 

Within the bed fair Isabel 

In blushing sweetness lay, 
Like flowers half-open'd by the dawn, 

And waiting for the day. 

And Rupert, by her lovely side, 

In youthful beauty glows, 
Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast 

His beams upon a rose ! 

And here my song should leave them both, 

Nor let the rest be told, 
But for the horrid, horrid tale 

It yet has to unfold ! 

Soon Rupert 'twixt his bride and him, 

A death-cold carcase found ; 
He saw it not, but thought he felt 

Its arms embrace him round. 

He started up, and then return'd, 

But found the phantom still ; 
In vain he shrunk, it clipp'd him round, 

With damp and deadly chill ! 

And when he bent, the earthy lips 
A kiss of horror gave ; 
'T was like the smell from charnel vaults, 
Or from the mouldering grave ! 

Hl-fated Rupert ! wild and loud 

Thou criedst to thy wife, 
" Oh ! save me from this horrid fiend, 

My Isabel ! my life !" 

But Isabel had nothing seen, 

She look'd around in vain ; 
And much she mourn'a the mad conceit 

That rack'd her Rupert's brain. 

At length from this invisible 

These words to Rupert came ; 
(Oh God ! while he did hear the words, 

What terrors shook his frame !) 

" Husband ! husband ! I 've the ring 

Thou gavest to-day to me ; 
And thou 'rt to me for ever wed, 

As I am wed to thee!" 

And all the night the demon lay 

Cold-chilling by his side, 
And strain'd him with such deadly grasp 

He thought he should have died ' 




But when the dawn of day was near, 

The horrid phantom fled, 
And left the affrighted youth to weep 

By Isabel in bed. 

All, all that day a gloomy cloud 
Was seen on Rupert's brows ; 

Fair Isabel was likewise sad, 
But strove to cheer her spouse. 

And, as the day advanced, he thought 
Of coming night with fear : 

Ah ! that he must with terror view 
The bed that should be dear ! 

At length the second night arrived, 
Again their couch they press'd ; 

Poor Rupert hoped that all was o'er, 
And look'd for love and rest. 

But oh ! when midnight came, again 

The fiend was at his side, 
And, as it strain'd him in its grasp, 

With howl exulting cried, — 

" Husband ! husband ! I 've the ring, 
The ring thou gavest to me ; 

And thou 'rt to me for ever wed, 
As I am wed to thee !" 

In agony of wild despair, 

He started from the bed ; 
And thus to his bewilder'd wife 

The trembling Rupert said : 

" Oh Isabel ! dost thou not see 

A shape of horrors here, 
That strains me to the deadly kiss. 

And keeps me from my dear ?" 

" No, no, my love ! my Rupert, I 

No shape of horror see ; 
And much I mourn the phantasy 

That keeps my dear from me !" 

This night, just like the night before,' 

In terrors pass'd away, 
Nor did the demon vanish thence 

Before the dawn of day. 

Says Rupert then, " My Isabel, 

Dear partner of my woe, 
To Father Austin's holy cave 

This instant will I go." 

Now Austin was a reverend man, 
Who acted wondrous maint, 

Whom all the country round believed 
A devil or a saint ! 

To Father Austin's holy cave 
Then Rupert went full straight, 

And told him all, and ask'd him how 
To remedy his fate. 

The fathei heard the youth, and then 

Retired awhile to pray ; 
And. having pray'd for half an hour, 

Return' d, and thus did say : 



" There is a place where four roads meet, 

Which I will tell to thee ; 
Be there this eve, at fall of night, 

And list what thou shalt see. 

Thou 'It see a group of figures pass 

In strange disorder'd crowd, 
Trav'ling by torch-light through the roads, 

With noises strange and loud. 

And one that 's high above the rest, 

Terrific towering o'er, 
Will make thee know him at a glance, 

So I need say no more. 

To him from me these tablets give, 

They '11 soon be understood ; 
Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight, 

I 've scrawl'd them with my blood !" 

The night-fall came, and Rupert all 

In pale amazement went 
To where the cross-roads met, and he 

Was by the father sent. 

And lo ! a group of figures came 

In strange disorder'd crowd, 
Trav'ling by torch-light through the roads. 

With noises strange and loud. 

And as the gloomy train advanced, 

Rupert beheld from far 
A female form of wanton mien 

Seated upon a car. 

And Rupert, as he gazed upon 

The loosely-vested dame, 
Thought of the marble statue's look, 

For hers was just the same. 

Behind her walk'd a hideous form, 

With eye-balls flashing death ; 
Whene'er he breath'd, a sulphur'd smoke 

Came burning in his breath ! 

He seem'd the first of all the crowd 

Terrific towering o'er ; 
"Yes, yes," said Rupert, " this is he, 

And I need ask no more." 

Then slow he went, and to this fiend 

The tablets trembling gave, 
Who look'd and read them with a yell 

That would disturb the grave. 

And when he saw the blood-scrawl'd name, 

His eyes with fury shine ; 
" I thought," cries he, " his time was out, 

But he must soon be mine !" 

Then darting at the youth a look, 

Which rent his soul with fear, 
He went unto the female fiend, 

And whisper'd in her ear. 

The female fiend no sooner heard 

Than, with reluctant look, 
The very ring that Rupert lost 

She from her finger took ; 



And, giving it unto the youth, 
With eyes that breath'd of hell, 

She said in that tremendous voice 
Which he remember'd well : 

" In Austin's name take back the ring, 
The ring thou gavest to me ; 

And thou 'rt to me no longer wed, 
Nor longer I to thee." 

He took the ring, the rabble pass'd, 

He home return'd again ; 
His wife was then the happiest fair, 

The happiest he of men. 



SONG. 
ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF MRS. 



WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 

Of all my happiest hours of joy, 
And even I have had my measure, 

When hearts were full and eveiy eye 
Has kindled with the beams of pleasure ! 

Such hours as this I ne'er was given, 
So dear to friendship, so dear to blisses ; 

Young Love himself looks down from heaven, 
To smile on such a day as this is ! 

Then, oh ! my friends, this hour improve, 
Let 's feel as if we ne'er could sever ! 

And may the birth of her we love 
Be thus with joy remember'd ever ! 

Oh ! banish every thought to-night, 
Which could disturb our souls' communion ! 

Abandon'd thus to dear delight, 
We '11 e'en for once forget the Union ! 

' On that let statesmen try their powers, 

And tremble o'er the rights they 'd die for ; 
The union of the soul be ours, 
And every union else we sigh for ! 

Then, oh ! my friends, this hour improve, 
Let 's feel as if we ne'er could sever ; 

And may the birth of her we love 
Be thus with joy remember'd ever! 

In every eye around I mark 

The feelings of the heart o'erflowing, 
From every soul I catch the spark 

Of sympathy in friendship glowing ! 

Oh ! could such moments ever fly : 

Oh ! that we ne'er were doom'd to lose 'em; 
And all as bright as Charlotte's eye, 

A.nd all as pure as Charlotte's bosom. 

But oh ! my friends, this hour improve, 
ixa s teel as if we ne'er could sever ; 

And may the birth of her we love 
Be thus with joy remember'd ever ! 

For me, whate'er my span of years, 
Whatever sun may light my roving ; 



Whether I waste my life in tears, 

Or live, as now, for mirth and loving ! 

This day shall come with aspect kind, 
Wherever Fate may cast your rover ; 

He '11 think of those he left behind, 
And drink a health to bliss that '3 over ! 

Then, oh ! my friends, this hour improve, 
Let 's feel as if we ne'er could sever ; 

And may the birth of her we love 
Be thus with joy remember'd ever ! 



TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH, 

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND. 

Is it not sweet, beloved youth, 

To rove through erudition's bowers, 

And cull the golden fruits of truth, 
And gather fancy's brilliant flowers ? 

And is it not more sweet than this 
To feel thy parents' hearts approving, 

And pay them back in sums of bliss 
The dear, the endless debt of loving ? 

It must be so to thee, my youth ; 

With this idea toil is lighter ; 
This sweetens all the fruits of truth, 

And makes the flowers of fancy brighter! 

The little gift we send thee, boy, 

May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder 

If indolence or syren joy 
Should ever tempt that soul to wander. 

'T will tell thee that the winged day 
Can ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavour ; 

That life and time shall fade away, 
While heaven and virtue bloom for ever ! 



FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES 



Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus. 



Jul'. 



Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line, 
Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine, 
How heavy sits that weight of alien show, 
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow ; 
Those borrow'd splendours, whose contrasting light 
Throws back the native shades in deeper night. 

Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue, 
Where are the arts by which that glory grew ? 
The genuine virtues that with eagle gaze 
Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze ? 
Where is the heart by chymic truth refined, 
The exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind ? 
Where are the links that twined with heavenly art. 
His country's interest round the patriot's heart ? 
Where is the tongue that scatter' d words of fire ? 
The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre ? 
Do these descend with all that tide of fame 
Which vainly waters an unfruitful name ? 
* * * * * 



LITTLE'S POEMS. 



29J 



Justum belluni quibus necessariuin, et pia arma quibu9 
Qulla nisi in armis relinquitur spcs. Livy. 



Is there no call, no consecrating cause, 
Approved by Heaven, ordain'd by Nature's laws, 
Where justice flies the herald of our way, 
And truth's pure beams upon the banners play ? 

Yes, there's a call, sweet as an angel's breath 
To slumbering babes, or innocence in death ; 
And urgent as the tongue of heaven within, 
When the mind's balance trembles upon sin. 

Oh ! 't is our country's voice, whose claims should 

meet 
An echo in the soul's most deep retreat ; 
Along the heart's responding string should run, 
Nor let a tone there vibrate — but the one ! 



SONG. 1 



Mary, I believed thee irue, 
And I'waTbTest in thus believing ; 

But now I mourn that e'er I knew 
A girl so fair and so deceiving ! 

Few have ever loved like me, — 

Oh ! I have loved thee too sincerely ! 

And few have e'er deceived like thee, — 
Alas ! deceived me too severely ! 

Fare thee well ! yet think awhile 

On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee 
Who now would rather trust that smile, 

And die with thee, than live without thee ! 

Fare thee well ! I'll think of thee, 
Thou leavest me many a bitter token ; 

For see, distracting woman ! see, 

My peace is gone, my heart is broken ! 
Fare thee well ! 



SONG. 

Why does azure deck the sky ? 

'T is to be like thy eyes of blue ; 
Why is red the rose's dye ? 

Because it is thy blush's hue. 
All that's fair, by Love's decree, 
Has been made resembling thee ! 

Why is falling snow so white, 

But to be like thy bosom fair ? 
Why are solar beams so bright ? 

That they may seem thy golden hair ! 
All that 's bright, by Love's decree, 
Has been made resembling thee ! 

Why are Nature's beauties felt ? 

Oh ! 't is thine in her we see ! 
Why has music power to melt ? 

Oh ! because it speaks like thee. 
All that 's sweet, by Love's decree, 
Has been made resembling thee ! 

I I believe these words were adapted by Mr. Little to the 
pathetic Scotch air " Galla Water." — E. 



MORALITY. 
A FAxMILIAR EPISTLE. 
ADDRESSED TO J. AT — NS — N, ESQ.. M. R. I. A ' 

Though long at school and college, dozing 
On books of rhyme and books of prosing, 
And copying from their moral pages 
Fine recipes for forming sages ; 
Though long with those divines at school, 
Who think to make us good by rule ; 
Who, in methodic forms advancing, 
Teaching morality like dancing, 
Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake, 
What steps we are through life .o take : 
Though thus, my friend, so long employ'd, 
And so much midnight oil destroy'd, 
I must confess, my searches past, 
I only learn'd to doubt at last. 

I find the doctors and the sages 

Have differ'd in all climes and ages, 

And two in fifty scarce agree 

On what is pure morality ! 

*T is like the rainbow's shifting zone, 

And every vision makes its own. 

The doctors of the Porch advise, 
As modes of being great and wise, 
That we should cease to own or know 
The luxuries that from feeling flow 

" Reason alone must claim direction. 
And Apathy's the soul's perfection. 
Like a dull lake the heart must lie ; 
Nor passion's gale nor pleasure's sigh, 
Though heaven the breeze, the breath supplied, 
Must curl the wave or swell the tide !" 

Such was the rigid Zeno's plan 

To form his philosophic man ; 

Such were the modes he taught mankind 

To weed the garden of the mind ; 

They tore away some weeds, 't is true, 

But all the flowers were ravish'd too ! 

Now listen to the wily strains, 
Which, on Cyrene's sandy plains, 
When Pleasure, nymph with loosen'd zone, 
► Usurp'd the philosophic throne ; 
Hear what the courtly sage's tongue 2 
To his surrounding pupils sung : 

" Pleasure's the only noble end 
To which all human powers should tend, 
And Virtue gives her heavenly lore, 
But to make Pleasure please us more ! ■ 
Wisdom and she were both design'd 
To make the senses more refined, 
That man might revel, free from cloying, 
Then most a sage, when most enjoying '" 



1 The gentleman to whom this poem is addressed, is the 
author of some esteemed works, and was Mr. Little's mast 
particular friend. I have heard Mr. Little very frequently 
speak of him as one in whom "the elements were so mix- 
ed," that neither in his head nor heart had nature left an* 
deficiency. — E. 

2 Aristippus. 



294 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Is this morality ? — Oh, no ! 
E'en I a wiser path could show. 
The flower within this vase confined, 
The pure, the unfading flower of mind, 
Must not throw all its sweets away 
Upon a mortal mould of clay; 
No, no ! its richest breath should rise 
In virtue's incense to the skies ! 

But thus it is, all sects, we see, 

Have watch-words of morality: 

Some cry out Venus, others Jove ; 

Here 't is religion, there 't is love ! 

But while they thus so widely wander, 

While mystics dream and doctors ponder, 

And some, in dialectics firm, 

Seek virtue in a middle term ; 

While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance, 

To chain morality with science ; 

This plain good man, whose actions teach 

More virtue than a sect can preach, 

Pursues his course, unsagely blest, 

His tutor whispering in his breast : 

Nor could he act a purer part, 

Though he had Tully all by heart ; 

And when he drops the tear on woe, 

He little knows or cares to know 

That Epictetus blamed that tear, 

By Heaven approved, to virtue dear ! 

Oh ! when I 've seen the morning beam 
Floating within the dimpled stream, 
While Nature, wakening from the night, 
Has just put on her robes of light, 
Have I, with cold optician's gaze, 
Explored the doctrine of those rays ? 
No, pedants, I have left to you 
Nicely to separate hue from hue : 
Go, give that moment up to art, 
When Heaver and Nature claim the heart ; 
And dull to a*i their best attraction, 
Go —measure angles of refraction ! 



While I, in feeling's sweet romance, * 
Look on each day-beam as a glance 
From the great eye of Him above, 
Wakening his world with looks of love ! 



THE NATAL GENIUS. 

A DREAM. 
, THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH-DAT 



In witching slumbers of the night, 
I dream'd I was the airy sprite 

That on thy natal moment smiled ; 
And thought I wafted on my wing 
Those flowers which in Elysium spring, 

To crown my lovely mortal child. 

With olive-branch I bound thy head, 
Heart's-ease along thy path I shed, 

Which was to bloom through all thy years j 
Nor yet did I forget to bind 
Love's roses, with his myrtle twined, 

And dew'd by sympathetic tears. 

Such was the wild but precious boon, 
Which Fancy, at her magic noon, • 

Bade me to Nona's image pay — 
Oh ! were I, love, thus doom'd to be 
Thy little guardian deity, 

How blest around thy steps I 'd play ! 

Thy life should softly steal along, 
Calm as some lonely shepherd's song 

That 's heard at distance in the grove ; 
No cloud should ever shade thy sky, 
No thorns along thy pathway lie, 

But all be sunshine, peace, and love 

Thd wing of Time should never brush 
Thy dewy lip's luxuriant flush, 

To bid its roses withering die ; 
Nor age itself, though dim and dark, 
Should ever quench a single spark 

That flashes from my Nona's eye ! 



THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 



PREFACE. 

This Poem, somewhat different in form, and much 
more limited in extent, was originally designed as an 
episode for a work about which I have been, at inter- 
vals, employed during the last two years. Some 
months since, however, I found that my friend Lord 
Byron had, by an accidental coincidence, chosen the 
same subject for a drama ; and as I could not but'feel 
the disadvantage of coming after so formidable a 
rival, I thought it best to publish my humble sketch 
immediately, with such alterations and additions as I 
had time to make, and thus, by an earlier appearance 
in the literary horizon, give myself the chance of what 
astronomers call an Heliacal rising, before the lumi- 
nary, in whose light I was to be lost, should appear. 
As objections may be made, by persons whose 
opinions I respect, to the selection of a subject of 
this nature from the Scripture, I think it right to re- 
mark that, in point of fact, the subject is not scrip- 
tural — the notion upon which it is founded (that of 
the love of angels for women) having originated in 
an erroneous translation by the LXX, of that verse 
in the sixth chapter of Genesis, upon which the sole 
authority for the fable rests. 1 The foundation of my 
6tory, therefore, has as little to do with Holy Writ as 
have the dreams of the later Platonists, or the reve- 
ries of the Jewish divines ; and, in appropriating the 
notion thus to the uses of poetry, I have done no 
more than establish it in that region of fiction, to 
which the opinions of the most rational Fathers, and 
of all other Christian theologians, have long ago con- 
signed it. 

f In addition to the fitnes^ of the subject for poetry, 
it struck me also as capable of affording an allegori- 
cal medium, through which might be shadowed out 
(as 1 have endeavoured to do in the following stories,) 
the fall of the soul from its original purity — the loss 
of light and happiness which it suffers, in the pursuit 
of this world's perishable pleasures — and the punish- 
ments, both from conscience and divine justice, with 
which impurity, pride, and presumptuous inquiry into 
the awful secrets of God, are sure to be visited. The 
beautiful story of Cupid and Psyche owes its chief 
cnarm to this sort of "veiled meaning," and it has 
been my wish (however I may have failed in the at- 
tempt) to communicate the same moral interest to 
the following pages. 



THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 

Twas when the world was in its prime, 

When the fresh stars had just begun 

Their race of glory, and young Time 

Told his first birth-days by the sun ; 



1 See Note. 



When, in the light of Nature s dawn 

Rejoicing, men and angels met 
On the high hill and sunny lawn, — 
Ere Sorrow came, or Sin had drawn 

'Twixt man and Heaven her curtain yet ! 
When earth lay nearer to the skies 

Than in these days of crime and woe, 
And mortals saw, without surprise, 
In the mid air, angelic eyes 

Gazing upon this world below. 
Alas, that passion should profane, 

Even then, that morning of the earth ! 
That, sadder still, the fatal stain 

Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth— 
And oh, that stain so dark should tall 
From woman's love, most sad of all! 

One evening, in that time of bloom, 

On a hill's side, where hung the ray 
Of sunset, sleeping in perfume, 

Three noble youths conversing lay ; 
And as they look'd, from time to time, 

To the far sky, where Day-light furl'd 
His radiant wing, their brows sublime 

Bespoke them of that distant world — 
Creatures of light, such as still play, 

Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord, 
And through their infinite array 
Transmit each moment, night and day, 

The echo of his luminous word ! 

Of hea\»n they spoke, and, still more oft, 

Of tire bright eyes that charm'd them thence, 
Till, yielding gradual to the soft 

And balmy evening's influence — 
The silent breathing of the flowers — 

The melting light that beam'd above, 
As on their first fond erring hours, 

Each told the story of his love, 
The history of that hour unblest, 
When, like a bird, from its high nest 
Won down by fascinating eyes, 
For woman's smile he lost the skies. 

The First who spoke was one, with look 

The least celestial of the three — 
A Spirit of light mould, that took 

The prints of earth most yieldingly; 
Who, even in heaven, was not of those 

Nearest the throne, but held a place 
Far off, among those shining rows 

That circle out through endless space, 
And o'er whose wings the light from Him 

In the great centre falls most dim. 

Still fair and glorious, he but shone 
Among those youths the unheavenliest one- 
A creature to whom light remain'd 
From Eden still, but alter'd, stain'd, 



— ■ , „»_ 

296 MOORE'S WORKS. 


And o'er whose brow not Love alone 


'Tis not in words to tell the power, 


A blight had, in his transit, sent r 


The despotism, that, from that hour, 


But other, earthlier joys had gone, 


Passion held o'er me — day and night 


And left their foot-prints as they went. 


I sought around each neighbouring spot, 




And, in the chase of this sweet light, 


Sighing, as through the shadowy Past, 


My task, and Heaven, and all forgot — 


Like a tomb-searcher, Memory ran, 


All but the one, sole, haunting dream 


Lifting each shroud that time had cast 


Of her I saw in that bright stream. 


O'er buried hopes, he thus began : — 






Nor was it long, ere by her side 


FIRST ANGEL'S STORY 


I found myself whole happy days, 




Listening to words, whose music vied 




With our own Eden's seraph lays, 


T was in a land, that far away 


When seraph lays are warm'd by love, 


Into the golden orient lies, 


But wanting that, far, far above ! — 


Where Nature knows not Night's delay, 


And looking into eyes where, blue 


But springs to meet her bridegroom, Day, 


And beautiful, like skies seen through 


Upon the threshold of the skies 


The sleeping wave, for me there shone 


One morn, on earthly mission sent, 


A heaven more worshipp'd than my own 


And midway choosing where to light, 


Oh what, while I could hear and see 


I saw from the blue element — 


Such words and looks, was heaven to me ? 


Oh beautiful, but fatal sight ! — 


Though gross the air on earth I drew, 


One of earth's fairest womankind, 


'T was blessed, while she breathed it too ; 


Half veil'd from view, or rather shrined 


Though dark the flowers, though dim the sky. 


In the clear crystal of a brook ; 


Love lent them light, while she was nigh. 


Which, while it hid no single gleam 


Throughout creation I but knew 


Of her young beauties, made them look 


Two separate worlds — the one, that small, 


More spirit-like, as they might seem 


Beloved, and consecrated spot 


Through the dim shadowing of a dream . 


Where Lea was — the other, all 




The dull wide waste, where she was not ! 


Pausing in wonder I look'd on, 


1 


While, playfully around her breaking 


But vain my suit, my madness vain ; 


The waters, that like diamonds shone, 


Though gladly, from her eyes to gain 


She mov'd in light of her own making. 


One earthly look, one stray desire, 


At length, as slowly I descended 


I would have torn the wings that hung 


To -view more near a sight so splendid, 


Furl'd at my back, and o'er that Fire 


The tremble of my wings all o'er 


Unnamed in heaven their fragments flung 5— 


(For through each plume I felt the thrill) 


'T was hopeless all — pure and unmoved 


Startled her, as she reach'd the shore 


She stood, as lilies in the light 


Of that small lake — her mirror still — 


Of the hot noon but look more white ;— 


Above whose brink she stood, like snow 


And though she loved me, deeply loved, % 


When rosy with a sunset glow. 


'T was not as man, as mortal — no, 


Never shall I forget those eyes ! — 


Nothing of earth was in that glow — 


The shame, the innocent surprise 


She loved me but as one, of race 


Of that bright face, when in the air 


Angelic, from that radiant place 


Uplooking, she beheld me there. 


She saw so oft in dreams — that heaven, 


It seem'd as if each thought and look, 


To which her prayers at morn were sent. 


And motion were that minute chain'd 


And on whose light she gazed at even, 


Fast to the spot, such root she took, 


Wishing for wings, that she might go 


And — like a sunflower by a brook, 


Out of this shadowy world below, 


With face upturn'd — so still remain'd ! 


To that free glorious element ! 


In pity to the wondering maid, 


Well I remember by her side, 


Though loth from such a vision turning, 


Sitting at rosy eventide, 


Downward I bent, beneath the shade 


When, turning to the star, whose head 


Of my spread wings, to hide the burning 


Look'd out, as from a bridal bed, 


Of glances which — I well could feel — 


At that mute blushing hour, — she said, 


For me, for her, too warmly shone ; 


" Oh ! that it were my doom to be 


But ere I could again unseal 


The Spirit of yon beauteous star, 


My restless eyes, or even steal 


Dwelling up there in purity, 


One side-long look, the maid was gone— « 


Alone, as all such bright things are ; — 


Hid from me in the forest leaves, 


My sole employ to pray and shine, 


Sudden as when, in all her charms 


To light my censer at the sun, 


Of full-blown light, some cloud receives 


And fling its fire towards the shrine 


The moon into his dusky arms 


Of Him in Heaven, the Eternal One !" 





THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 



297 



So innocent the maid — so free 
From mortal taint in soul and frame, 

Whom 't was my crime — my destiny — 
To love, ay, burn for, with a flame, 
To which earth's wildest fires are tame. 

Had you but seen her look, when first 

From my mad lips the avowal burst ; 

Not angry — no — the feeling had 

No touch of anger, but most sad — 

It was a sorrow, calm as deep, 

A mournfulness that could not weep, 

So fill'd the heart was to the brink, 

So fix'd and frozen there — to think 

That angel natures — even 1, 

Whose love she clung to, as the tie 

Between her spirit and the sky — 

Should fall thus headlong from the height 
Of such pure glory into sin — 

The sin, of all, most sure to blight, — 

The sin, of all, that the soul's light 
Is soonest lost, extinguish'd in ! 

That, though but frail and human, she 

Should, like the half-bird of the sea, 

Try with her wing sublimer air, 

While I, a creature born up there, 

Should meet her, in my fall from light, 

From heaven and peace, and turn her flight 

Downward again, with me to drink 

Of the salt tide of sin, and sink ! 

That very night — my heart had grown 

Impatient of its inward burning ; 
The term, too, of my stay was flown, 
And the bright Watchers ' near the throne 
Already, if a meteor shone 
Between them and this nether zone, 
Thought 't was their herald's wing returning : — 
Oft did the potent spell-word, given 

To envoys hither from the skies, 
To be pronounced, when back to heaven 

It is their hour or wish to rise, 
Come to my lips that fatal day ; 

And once, too, was so nearly spoken, 
That my spread plumage in the ray 
And breeze of heaven began to play — 

When my heart fail'd — the spell was broken — 
The word unfinished died away, 
And my check'd plumes, ready to soar, 
Fell slack and lifeless as before. - 

How could I leave a world which she, 
Or lost or won, made all to me, 
Beyond home — glory — every thing? 

How fly, while yet there was a chance, 
A hope — ay, even of perishing 

Utterly by that fatal glance ? 
No matter where my wanderings were, 

So there she look'd, moved, breathed about — 
Woe, ruin, death, more sweet with her, 

Than all heaven's proudest joys without ! 

But, to return — that very day 

A feast was held, where, full of mirth, 
Came, crowding thick as flowers that play 



1 See Note. 
2P 



In summer winds, the young and gay 

And beautiful of this bright earth. 
And she was there, and 'mid the young 

And beautiful stood first, alone ; 
Though on her gentle brow still hung 

The shadow I that morn had thrown — 
The first that ever shame or woe 
Had cast upon its vernal snow. 
My heart was madden'd — in the flush 

Of the wild revel I gave way 
To all that frantic mirth — that rush 

Of desperate gaiety, which they 
Who never felt how pain's excess 
Can break out thus, think happiness — 
Sad mimicry of mirth and life, 
Whose flashes come but from the strife 
Of inward passions — like the light 
Struck out by clashing swords in fight. 

Then, too, that juice of earth, the bane 
And blessing of man's heart and brain — 
That draught of sorcery, which brings 
Phantoms of fair, forbidden things — 
Whose drops, like those of rainbows, smile 

Upon the mists that circle man, 
Brightening not only earth, the while, 

. B*t grasping heaven, too, in their span !— 
Then first the fatal wine-cup rain'd 

Its dews of darkness through my lips, 
Casting vvhate'er of light remain'd 

To my lost soul into eclipse, 
And filling it with such wild dreams, 

Such fantasies and wrong desires, 
As in the absence of heaven's beams, 

Haunt us for ever — like wild fires 

That walk this earth, when day retires. 

Now hear the rest — our banquet done, 

I sought her in the accustom'd bower, 
Where late we oft, when day was gone. 
And the world hush'd, had met alone, 

At the same silent moonlight hour. 
I found her — oh, so beautiful ! 

Why, why have hapless angels eyes ? 
Or why are there not flowers to cull, 

As fair as woman, in yon skies ? 
Still did her brow, as usual, turn 
To her loved star, which seem'd to burn 

Purer than ever on that night ; 

While she, in looking grew more bright, 
As though that planet were an urn 

From which her eyes' drank liquid light. 

There was a virtue in that scene, 

A spell of holiness around, 
Which would have — had my brain not been 

Thus poison'd, madden'd — held me bound, 

As though I stood on God's own ground. 
Even as it was, with soul all flame, 

And lips that burn'd in their own sighs, 
I stood to gaze, with awe and shame — 
The memory of Eden came 

Full o'er me when I saw those eyes ,- 
And though too well each glance of mine 

To the pale shrinking maiden proved 
How far, alas, from aught divino, 



298 MOOKE'S WORKS. 


Aught worthy of so pure a shrine, 


That very moment her whole frame 


Was the wild love with which I loved, 


All bright and glorified became, 


Yet must she, too, have seen — oh yes, 


And at her back I saw unclose 


'T is soothing but to think she saw - 


Two wings magnificent as those 


The deep, true, soul-felt tenderness, 


That sparkle round the eternal throne, 


The homage of an angel's *we 


Whose plumes, as buoyantly she rose 


To her, a mortal, whom pure love 


Above me, in the moon-beam shone 


Then plawd above him — far above— 


With a pure light, which — from its hue, 


And all that struggle to repress 


Unknown upon this earth — I knew 


A sinful spirit's mad excess, 


Was light from Eden, glistening through ! 


Which work'd within me at that hour, 


Most holy vision ! ne'er before 


When — with a voice, where Passion shed 


Did aught so radiant — since the day 


All the deep sadness of her power, 


When Lucifer, in falling, bore 


Her melancholy power — I said, 


The third of the bright stars away — 1 


" Then be it so — if back to heaven 


Rise, in earth's beauty, to repair 


I must unloved, unpitied fly, 


That loss of light and glory there ! 


Without one blest memorial given 




To sooth me in that lonely sky — 


But did I tamely view her flight ? 


One look like those the young and fond 


Did not 1, too, proclaim out thrice 


Give when they're parting — which would be, 


The powerful words that were, that night*-* 


Even in remembrance, far beyond 


Oh even for Heaven too much delight ! — 


All heaven hath left of bliss for me ! 


Again to bring us eyes to eyes, 




And soul to soul in Paradise ? 


" Oh, but to see that head recline 


I did — I spoke it o'er and o'er — 


A minute on this trembling arm, 


I pray'd, I wept, but all in vain ; 


And those mild eyes look up to mine 


For me the spell had power no more, 


Without a dread, a thought of harm ! 


There seem'd around me some dark chain, 


To meet but once the thrilling touch 


Which still, as I essay'd to soar, 


Of lips that are too fond to fear me — 


Baffled, alas ! each wild endeavour : 


Or, if that boon be all too much, 


Dead lay my wings, as they have lain 


Even thus to bring their fragrance near me ! 


Since that sad hour, and will remain — ■ 


Nay, shrink not so — a look — a word — 


So wills the offended God — for ever ! 


Give them but kindly and I fly ; 




Already, see, my plumes have stirr'd, 


It was to yonder star I traced 


And tremble for their home on high. 


Her journey up the illumined waste- 


Thus be our parting — cheek to cheek — 


That isle in the blue firmament, 


One minute's lapse will be forgiven, 


To which so oft her fancy went 


And thou, the next, shalt hear me speak 


In wishes and in dreams before, 


The spell that plumes my wing for heaven !" 


And which was now — such, Purity, 


While thus I spoke, the fearful maid, 
Of me and of herself afraid, 


Thy blest reward — ordain'd to be 
Her home of light for evermore ! 


Had shrinking stood, like flowers beneath 


Once — or did I but fancy so ? — 


The scorching of the south wind's breath; 


Even in her flight to that fair sphere, 


But when I named — alas, too well 


'Mid all her spirit's new-felt glow, 


I now recal, though wilder'd then, — 


A pitying look she turn'd below 


Instantly, when I named the spell, 


On him who stood in darkness here ; 


Her brow, her eyes uprose again, 


Him whom, perhaps, if vain regret 


And, with an eagerness that spoke 


Can dwell in heaven, she pities yet ; 


The sudden light that o'er her broke, 


And oft, when looking to this dim 


" The spell, the spell ! — oh, speak it now, 


And distant world remembers him. 


And I will bless thee !" she exclaim' d— 




Unknowing what I did, inflamed, 
And lost already, on her brow 


But soon that passing dream was gone ; 


Farther and farther off she shone, 


I stamp'd one burning kiss, and named 


Till lessen'd to a point as small 


The mystic word, till then ne'er told 


As are those specks that yonder burn— 


To living creature of earth's mould ! 


Those vivid drops of light, that fall 


Scarce was it said, when, quick as thought, 


The last from day's exhausted urn. 


Her lips from mine, like echo, caught 


And when at length she merged, afar, 


The holy sound — her hands and eyes 


Into her own immortal star, 


Were instant lifted to the skies, 


And when at length my straining sight 


And thrice to heaven she spoke it out, 


Had caught her wing's last fading ray, 


With that triumphant look Faith wears 


That minute from my soul the light 


When not a cloud of fear or doubt, 


Of heaven and love both pass'd away; 


A vapour from this vale of tears 






Bel ween her and her God appears ! 


1 See Nota. 

— ~* 



THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 



2U9 



And I forgot my home, my birth, 
Profaned my spirit, sunk my brow, » 

And revell'd in gross joys of earth, 
Till I became — what I am now ! • 

The Spirit bow'd his head in shame ; 

A shame that of itself would tell — 
Were there not even those breaks of flame, 
Celestial, through his clouded frame — 

How grand the height from which he fell ! 
That holy Shame which ne'er forgets 

What clear renown it used to wear ; 
WTiose blush remains, when Virtue sets, 

To show her sunshine has been there. 
Once only, while the tale he told, 
Were his. eyes lifted to behold 
That happy stainless star, where she 
Dwelt in her bower of purity ! 
One minute did he look, and then— 

As though he felt some deadly pain 

From its sweet light through heart and brain- 
Shrunk back, and never look'd ajiain. 



Who was the Second Spirit ? — he 

With the proud front and piercing glance— 

Who seem'd, when viewing heaven's expanse, 
As though his far-sent eye could see 
On, on into the Immensity 
Behind the veils of that blue sky, 
Where God's sublimest secrets lie ? — 
His wings the while, though day was gone, 

Flashing with many a various hue 
Of light they from themselves alone, 

Instinct with Eden's brightness, drew— 
A breathing forth of beams at will, 

Of living beams, which, though no more 
They kept their early lustre, still 

Were such, when glittering out. all o'er, 

As mortal eyelids wink'd before. 

T was Rubi — once among the prime 

And flower of those bright creatures, named 
Spirits of Knowledge,' who o'er Time 

And Space and Thought an empire claim' d, 
Second alone to Him, whose light — 
Was, even to theirs, as day to night — 
'Twixt whom and them was distance far 

And wide, as would the journey be 
To reach from any island star 

The vague shores of infinity ! 
r T was Rubi, in whose mournful eye 
Slept the dim light of days gone by ; 
Whose voice, though sweet, fell on the ear 

Like echoes in some silent place, 
When first awaked for many a year: 

And when he smiled — if o'er his face 

Smilaever shone — 't was like the grace 
Of moonlight rainbows, fair, but wan, 
The sunny life, the glory gone. 
Even o'er his priue, though still the same, 
A softening shade from sorrow came ; 
And though at times his spirit knew 



1 The Cherubim. — See Note. 



The kindlings of disdain and ire, 
Short was the fitful glare they threw — 
Like the last flashes, fierce but few, 

Seen through some noble pile on fire ! 

Such was the Angel who now broke 

The silence that had come o'er all, 
When he, the Spirit that last spoke, 

Closed the sad history of his fall ; 
And, while a sacred lustre, flown 

For many a day, relum'd his cheek, 
And not those sky-tuned lips alone, 
But his eyes, brows, and tresses, roll'd 

Like sunset waves, all seem'd to speak- 
Thus his eventful story told : 

SECOND ANGEL'S STORY. 

You both remember well the day 

When unto Eden's new-made bowers, 
He, whom all living things obey, 

Summon'd his chief angelic powers, 
To witness the one wonder yet, 

Beyond man, angel, star, or sun, 
He must achieve, ere he could set 

His seal upon the world as done— 
To see that last perfection rise, 

That crowning of creation's birth, 
W T hen, 'mid the worship and surprise 
Of circling angels, Woman's eyes 

First open'd upon heaven and earth ; 
And from their lids a thrill was sent, 
That through each living spirit went, 
Like first light through the firmament ! 

Can you forget how gradual stole 
The fresh awaken'd breath of soul 
Throughout her perfect form — which seem'd 
To grow transparent, as there beam'd 
That dawn of mind within, and caught 
New loveliness from each new thought ? 
Slow as o'er summer seas we trace 

The progress of the noon-tide air, 
Dimpling its bright and silent face 
Each minute into some new grace, 

And varying heaven's reflections there— 
Or, like the light of evening, stealing 

O'er some fair temple, which all day 
Hath slept in shadow, slow revealing 

Its several beauties, ray by ray, 
Till it shines out, a thing to bless, 
All full of light and loveliness. 

Can you forget her blush, when round 
Through Eden's lone enchanted ground 
She look'd — and at the sea — the skies — 

And heard the rush of many a wing, 

By God's command then vanishing, 
And saw the last few angel eyes, 
Still lingering — mine among the rest, — 
Reluctant leaving scene so blest ? 
From that miraculous hour, the fate 

Of this new glorious Being dwelt 
For ever, with a spell-like weight, 
Upon my spirit- -early, late, 

W T hate'er I did, or dream'd, or felt, 



300 



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The thought of what might yet befall 
That splendid creature mix'd with all. — 
Nor she alone, but her whole race 

Through ages yet 1,0 come — whate'er 

Of feminine, and fond, and fair, 
Should spring from that pure mind and face, 

All waked my soul's intensest care : 
Their forms, souls, feelings, still to me 
God's most disturbing mystery ! 

It was my doom — even from the first, 
When summon'd with my cherub peers, 

To witness the young vernal burst 

Of nature through those blooming spheres, 

Those flowers of light, that sprung beneath 

The first touch of the Eternal's breath — 

It was my doom still to be haunted 
By some new wonder, some sublime 
And matchless work, that, for the time, 

Held all my soul enchain'd, enchanted, 

And left me not a thought, a dream, 

A word, but on that only theme ! 

The wish to know — that endless thirst, 

Which even by quenching, is awaked, 
And which becomes or bless'd or cursed, 

As is the fount whereat 't is slaked — 
Still urged me onward, with desire 
Insatiate, to explore, inquire — 
Whate'er the wondrous things might be, 
That waked.each new idolatry — 

Their cause, aim, source from whence they 
sprung, 
Their inmost powers, as though for me 

Existence on that knowledge hung. 

Oh what a vision were the stars, 
When first I saw them burn on high, 

Rolling along like living cars 
Of light, for gods to journey by ! 

They were my heart's first passion — days 

And nights, unwearied, in their rays 

Have I hung floating, till each sense 

Seem'd full of their bright influence 

Innocent joy ! alas, how much 
Of misery had I shunn'd below, 

Could I have still lived blest with such , 
Nor, proud and restless, burn'd to know 
The knowledge that brings guilt and woe ! 

Often — so much I loved to trace 
The secrets of this starry rece— 
Have I at morn and evening run 
Along the lines it radiance spun, 
fjike wffcs, between them and the sun, 
Up-Twisting all the tangled ties 
Of light into their different dyes — 
Then fleetly wing'd I off, in quest 
Of those, the farthest, loneliest, 
That watch, like winking sentinels, 
The void, beyond which Chaos dwells, 
And there, with noiseless plume, pursued 
Their track through that grand solitude, 
Asking intently all and each 

What soul within their radiance dwelt, 
ftjid wishing their sweet light were speech, 

That they might tell me all they felt. 



Nay, oft so passionate my chase 
Of these resplendent heirs of space, 
Oft did I follow — lest a ray 

Should 'scape me in the farthest night — 
Some pilgrim Comet, on his way ' 

To visit distant shrines of light, 
And well remember how I sung 

Exulting out, when on my sight 
New worlds of stars, all fresh and young, 
As if just born of darkness, sprung! 

Such was my pure ambition then, 

My sinless transport, night and morn ; 
Ere this still newer world of men, 

And that most fair of stars was born, 
Which I, in fatal hour, saw rise 
Among the flowers of Paradise ! 
Thenceforth my nature all was changed, 

My heart, soul, senses turn'd below ; 
And he, who but so lately ranged 

Yon wonderful expanse, where glow 
Worlds upon worlds, yet found his mind 
Even in that luminous range confined, 
Now blest the humblest, meanest sod 
Of the dark earth where Woman trod ! 
In vain my former idols glisten'd 

From their far thrones ; in vain these ears 
To the once thrilling music listen'd, 

That hymn'd around my favourite spheres— 
To earth, to earth each thought was given, 

That in this half-lost soul had birth ; 
Like some high mount, whose head 's in heaven. 

While its whole shadow rests on earth ! 

Nor was it Love, even yet, that thrall'd 

My spirit in his burning ties ; 
And less, still less could it be call'd 

That grosser flame, round which Love files 

Nearer and nearer, till he dies — 
No, it was wonder, such as thrill'd 

At all God r s works my dazzled sense ; 
The same rapt wonder, only fill'd 

With passion, more profound, intense,— 
A vehement, but wandering fire, 
Which, though nor love, nor yet desire, 
Though through all womankind it took , 

Its range, as vague as lightnings run, 
Yet wanted but a touch, a look, 

To fix it burning upon One. 

Then, too, the ever-restless zeal, 

The insatiate curiosity 
To know what shapes, so fair, rails'; feel- 
To look, but once, beneath the seal 

Of so much loveliness, and see 
What souls belong'd to those bright eyes— 

Whether, as sun-beams find their way 
Into the gem that hidden lies, 

Those looks could inward turn their ray, 

To make the soul as bright as they ! ' 
All this impelfd my anxious chase, 

And still the more I saw and knew 
Of Woman's fond, weak, conquering race, 

The intenser still my wonder grew. 

I had beheld their First, their Eve, 
Born in that splendid Paradise, 



THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 



301 



Which God made solely to receive 
The first light of her waking eyes. 

I had seen purest angels lean 
In worship o'er her from above ; 

And man — oh yes, had envying seen 
Proud man possess'd of all her love. 

I saw their happiness, so brief, 
So exquisite — her error, too, 
That easy trust, that prompt belief 

In what the warm heart wishes true ; 
That faith in words, when kindly said, 
By which the whole fond sex is led — 
Mingled with (what I durst not blame, 

For 't is my own) that wish to know, 

Sad, fatal zeal, so sure of woe ; 
Which, though from Heaven all pure it came, 
Yet stain'd, misused, brought sin and shame 

On her, on me, en all below ! 
I had seen this ; had seen Man — arm'd 

As his soul is with strength and sense- 
By her first words to ruin charm'd ; 

His vaunted reason's cold defence, 
Like an ice-barrier in the ray 
Of melting summer, smiled away ! 
Nay — stranger yet — spite of all this — 

Though by her counsels taught to err, 

Though driven from Paradise for her 
(And with her — that, at least, was bliss,) 
Had I not heard him, ere he cross'd 

The threshold of that earthly heaven, 
Which by her wildering smile he lost— 

So quickly was the wrong forgiven — 
Had I not heard him, as he press'd 
The frail fond trembler, to a breast 
Which she had doom'd to sin and strife, 
Call her — think what — his Life! his Life I 1 
Yes — such the love-taught name — the first 

That ruin'd Man to Woman gave, • 
Even in his out-cast hour, when curst, 
By her fond witchery, with that worst 

And earliest boon of love — the grave ! # 
She, who brought death into the world, 

There stood before him, with the light 

Of their lost Paradise still bright 
Upon those sunny locks, that curl'd 
Down her white shoulders to her feet— 
So beautiful in form, so sweet 
In heart and voice, as to redeem 

The loss, the death of all things dear, 
Except herself— and make it seem 

Life, endless life, while she was near ! 

Could I help wondering at a creature, 
Enchanted round with spells so strong — 

One, to whose every thought, word, feature, 
In joy and woe, through right and wrong, 

Such sweet omnipotence Heaven gave, 

To bless or ruin, curse or save ? 

Nor did the marvel cease with her — 
New Eves in all her daughters came, 



1 Chavah, the name by which Adam called the woman 
after their transgression, means "Life." — See Note. 



As strong to charm, as weak to err, 
As sure of man through praise and blame, 
Whate'er they brought him, pride or shame, 

Their still unreasoning worshipper — 
And, wheresoever they smiled, the same 
Enchantresses of soul and frame, 

Into whose hands, from first to last, 
This world, with all its destinies, 

Devotedly by Heaven seems cast, 
To save or damn it as they please ! 

Oh, 't is not to be told how long, 

How restlessly I sigh'd to find 
Some one, from out that shining throng, 

Some abstract of the form and mind 
Of the whole matchless sex, from which, 

In my own ; rms beheld, possess'd, 
I might learn all the powers to witch, 

To warm, and (if my fate unbless'd 

Would have it) ruin, of the rest ! 
Into whose inward soul and sense 

I might descend, as doth the bee 
Into the flower's deep heart, and thence 

Rifle, in all its purity, 
The prime, the quintessence, the whole 
Of wondrous Woman's frame and soul ! 

At length, my burning wish, my prayer,— 
(For such — oh what will tongues not dare, 
When hearts go wrong? — this lip preferr'd) — 
At length my ominous prayer was heard — 
But whether heard in heaven or hell, 
Listen — and you will know too well. 

There was a maid, of all who move 

Like visions o'er this orb, most fit 
To be a bright young angel's love, 

Herself so bright, so exquisite ! 
The pride, too, of her step, as light 

Along the unconscious earth she went, 
Seem'd that of one, born with a right 

To walk some heavenlier element, 
And tread in places where her feet 
A star at every step should meet. 
'T was not alone that loveliness 

By which the wilder'd sense is caught— 
Of lips, whose very breath could bless — 

Of playful blushes, that seem'd nought 

But luminous escapes of thought — 
Of eyes that, when by anger stirr'd, 
Were fire itself, but, at a word 

Of tenderness, all soft became 
As though they could, like the sun's bird, 

Dissolve away in their own flame — 
Of form, as pliant as the shoots 

Of a young tree, in vernal flower ; 
Yet round and glowing as the fruits 

That drop from it in summer's hour- 
'T was not alone this loveliness 

That falls to loveliest woman's share, 

Though, even here, her form could spare 
From its own beauty's rich exfcess 

Enough to make all others fair — 
But 't was the Mind, sparkling about 
Through her whole frame — the soul, brought out 



302 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



To light each charm, yet independent 

Of what it lighted, as the sun, 
That shines on flowers, would be resplendent 

Were there no flowers to shine upon — 
'T was this, all this, in one combined, 

The unnumber'd looks and arts that form 
The glory of young woman-kind 

Taken in their first fusion, warm, 

Ere time had chill' d a single charm, 
And stamp'd with such a seal of Mind, 

As gave to beauties, that might be 
Too sensual else, too unrefined, 

The impress of divinity ! 
*T was this — a union, which the hand 
. Of Nature kept for her alone, ' , 

Of every thing most playful, bland, 
Voluptuous, spiritual, grand, 

In angel-natures and her own — ■ 
Oh this it was that drew me nigh 
One, who seem!d kin to Heaven as I, 
My bright twin sister of the sky — 
One, in whose love, I felt, were given 

The mixed delights of either sphere, 
All that the spirit seeks in heaven, 

And all the senses burn for here ! 

Had we — but hold — hear every part 

Of our sad tale — spite of the pain 
Remembrance gives, when the fixed dart 

Is stirr'd thus in the wound again — 
Hear every step, so full of bliss, 

And yet so ruinous, that led 
Down to the last dark precipice, 

Where perish'd both — the fall'n, the dead ! 

From the first hour she caught my sight, 
I never left her — day and night 
Hovering unseen around her way, 

And 'mid her loneliest musings near, 
I soon could track each thought that lay, 

Gleaming within her heart, as clear 

As pebbles within brooks appear ; 
And there, among the countless things 

That keep young hearts for ever glowing, 
Vague wishes, fond imaginings, 

Love-dreams, as yet no object knowing — 
Light, winged hopes, that come when bid, 

And rainbow joys that end in weeping, 
And passions, among pure thoughts hid, 

Like serpents under flow'rets sleeping— 
'Mong all these feelings — felt where'er 
Young hearts are beating — I saw there 
Proud thoughts, aspirings high — beyond 
Whate'er yet dwelt in soul so fond — 
Glimpses of glory, far away 

Into the bright vague future given, 
And fancies, free and grand, whose play 

Like that of eaglets, is near heaven! 
With this, too — what a soul and heart 
To fall beneath the tempter's art ! — 
A zeal for knowledge, such as ne'er 
Enshrined itself in form so fair, 
Since that first fatal hour, when Eve, 

With every fruit of Eden bless'd, 
Save only one, rather than leave 

Th^t one unknown, lost all the rest 



It was in dreams that first I stole 

With gentle mastery o'er her mind — 
In that rich twilight of the soul, 

When Reason's beam, half hid behind 
The clouds of sense, obscurely gilds 
Each shadowy shape that Fancy builds— 
'T was then, by that soft light,I brought 

Vague, glimmering visions to her view- 
Catches of radiance, lost when caught, 
Bright labyrinths, that led to nought, 

And vistas with a void seen through — 
Dwellings of bliss, that opening shone, 

Then closed, dissolved, and left no trace — 
All that, in short, could tempt Hope on, 

But give her wing no resting-place ; 
Myself the while, with brow, as yet, 
Pure as the young moon's coronet, 
Through every dream still in her sight, 

The enchanter of each mocking scene, 
Who gave the hope, then brought the blight, 
Who said " Behold yon world of light," 

Then sudden dropp'd a veil between ! 

At length, when I perceived each thought, 
Waking or sleeping, fix'd on nought 

But these illusive scenes, and me, 
The phantom, who thus came and went, 
In half revealments, only meant 

To madden curiosity — 
When by such various arts I found 
Her fancy to its utmost wound, 
One night — t' was in a holy spot, 
Which she for prayer had chosen — a grot 
Of purest marble, built below 
Her garden beds, through which a glow 
From lamps invisible then stole, 

Brightly pervading all the place — 
Like that mysterious light, the soul, 

Itself unseen, sheds through the face- 
There, at her altar while she knelt, 
And all that woman ever felt, 

When God and man both claim'd her sighs 
Every vvarm thought that ever dwelt, 

Like summer clouds, twixt earth and skiei. 

Too pure to fall, too gross to rise, 

Spoke in her gestures, tones, and eyes, 
Thus, by the tender light, which lay 
Dissolving round, as if its ray 
Was breathed from her, I heard her say *— ■ 

" Oh, idol of my dreams ! whate'er 

Thj' nature be — human, divine, 
Or but half heavenly — still too fair, 

Too heavenly to be ever mine ! 

" Wonderful Spirit, who dost make 

Slumber so lovely that it seems 
No longer life to live awake, 

Since heaven itself descends in dreams. 

"Why do I ever lose thee ? — why — 

When on thy realms and thee I gaze- 
Still drops that veil, which I could die, 
Oh gladly, but one hour to raise ? 

" Long ere such miracles as thou 

And thine came o'er my thoughts, a thirst 



_. _ . .. f . . 

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 303 


For light was in this soul, which now 


And whose soul lost, in that one hour, 


Thy looks have into passion nursed. 


For her and for her love — oh more 




Of Heaven's light than even tn« power 


u There 's nothing bright above, below, 


Of Heaven itself could now restore ! 


In sky — earth — ocean, that this breast 




Doth not intensely burn to know, 


And yet the hour ! 


And thee, thee, thee, o'er all the rest ! 






The Spirit here 


u Then come, oh Spirit, from behind 


Stopped in his utterance, as if words 


The curtains of thy radiant home, 


Gave way beneath the wild career 


Whether thou wouldst as God be shrined, 


Of his then rushing thoughts — hke chords, 


Or loved and clasp'd as mortal, come i 


Midway in some enthusiast's song, 


"Bring all thy dazzling wonders here, 

That 1 may waking know and see — 

Or waft me hence to thy own sphere, 


Breaking beneath a touch too strong «- 


While the clench'd hand upon the brow 


Told how remembrance throbb'd there now ! 


Thy heaven or — ay, even that with thee ! 


But soon 't was o'er — that casual blaze 


From the sunk fire of other days, 


" Demon or God, who hold'st the book 


That relic of the flame, whose burning 


Of knowledge spread beneath thine eye, 


Had been too fierce to be relumed, 


Give me, with thee, but one bright look 


Soon pass'd away, and the youth, turning 


Jnto its leaves, and let me die ! 


To his bright listeners, thus resumed :— 


" By those ethereal wings, whose way 


Days, months elapsed, and, though what most 


Lies through an element, so fraught 


On earth I sigh'd for was mine, all, — 


With floating Mind, that, as they play, 


Yet — was I happy ? God, thou know'st 


Their every movement is a thought ! 


Howe'er they smile, and feign, and boast, 




What happiness is theirs, who fall ! 


" By that most precious hair, between 


'T was bitterest anguish — made more keen 
Even by the love, the bliss, between 


Whose golden clusters the sweet wind 


Of Paradise so late hath been, 


Whose throbs it came, like gleams of hell 


And left its fragrant soul behind ! 


In agonizing cross-light given 


" By those impassion'd eyes, that melt 

Their light into the inmost heart, 
Like sunset in the waters, felt 


Athwart the glimpses they who dwell 

In purgatory catch of heaven ! 
The only feeling that to me 


As molten fire through every part, — 


Seem'd joy, or rather my sole rest 
From aching misery, was to see 


" I do implore thee, oh most bright 


My young, proud, blooming Lilis bless'd 


And worshipp'd Spirit, shine but o'er 


She, the fair fountain of all ill 


My waking wondering eyes this night, 


To my lost soul — whom yet its thirst 


This one bless'd night — I ask no more !' 


Fervidly panted after still, 




And found the charm fresh as at first !— 


Exhausted, breathless, as she said 


To see her happy — to reflect 


These burning words, her languid head 


Whatever beams still round me play'd 


Upon the altar's steps she cast, 


Of former pride, of glory wreck' d, 


As if that brain-throb were its last — . 


On her, my Moon, whose light I made, 


Till, startled by the breathing, nigh, 


And whose soul worshipp'd even my shade- - 


Of lips, that echoed back her sigh, 


This was, I own, enjoyment — this 


Sudden her brow again she raised, 


My sole, last lingering glimpse of bliss. 


And there, just lighted on the shrine, 


And proud she was, bright creature ! — proud, 


Beheld me — not as I had blazed 


Beyond what even most queenly stirs 


Around her, full of light divine, 


In woman's heart, nor would have bow'd 


In her late dreams, but soften'd down 


That beautiful young brow of hers 


Into more mortal grace — my crown 


To aught beneath the First above, 


Of flowers, too radiant for this world, 


So high she deem'd her Cherub's love '. 


Left hanging on yon starry steep ; 




My wings shut up, like banners furl'd, 


Then, too, that passion, hourly growing 


When Peace hath put their pomp to sleep , 


Stronger and stronger — to which even 


Or like autumnal clouds, that keep 


Her love, at times, gave way — of knowing 


Their lightnings sheathed, rather than mar 


Every thing strange in earth and heaven ; 


The dawning hour of some young star — 


Not only what God loves to show, 


And nothing left but what beseem'd 


But all that He hath seal'd below 


The accessible, though glorious mate 


In darkness for man not to know- 


Of mortal woman — whose eyes beam'd 


Even this desire, alas, ill-starr'd 


Back upon her's, as passionate : 


And fatal as it was, I sought 


Whose ready heart brought flame for flame, 


To feed each minute, and unbarr'd 


Whose sin, whose madness was the same, 


Such realms of wonder on her thcjg.it. 


tSsrir— ; ' r~7TTrT~T: 





304 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



As ne'er till then, had let their light 

Escape on any mortal's sight ! 

In the deep earth — beneath the sea — 

Through caves of fire— through wilds of air- 
Wherever sleeping Mystery 

Had spread her curtain, we were there- 
Love still beside us, as we went, 
At home in each new element, 

And sure of worship every where ! 

Then first was Nature taught to lay 

The wealth of all her kingdoms down 
At woman's worshipp'd feet, and say, 

" Bright creature, this is all thine own !" 
Then first were diamonds caught — like eyes 
Shining in darkness — by surprise, 
And made to light the conquering way 
Of proud young Beauty with their ray. 
Then, too, the pearl from out its shell, 

Unsightly in the sunless sea 
(As 't were a spirit forced to dwell 

In form unlovely,) was set free, 
And round the neck of woman threw 
A light it lent and borrow'd too. 
For never did this maid — whate'er 

The ambition of the hour — forget 
Her sex's pride in being fair, 
Nor that adornment, tasteful, rare, 

Which makes the mighty magnet, set 

In Woman's form, more mighty yet. 
Nor was there aught within the range. 

Of my swift wing in sea or air, 
Of beautiful, or grand, or strange, 
That, quicldy as her wish could change, 

I did not seek with such fond care, 
That when I 've seen her look above 

At some bright star admiringly, 
I've said, " nay, look not there, my love, 

Alas, I cannot give it thee !" 

But not alone the wonders found 

Through Nature's realm — the unveil'd, material. 
Visible glories that hang round, 
Like lights, through her enchanted ground— 

But whatsoe'er unseen, ethereal, 
Pwells far away from human sense, 
Wraprj'd in its own intelligence— 
The mystery of that Fountain-head, 

From which all vital spirit runs, 
All breath of life where'er 't is shed, 

Through men or angels, flowers or suns— 
The workings of the Almighty Mind, 
When first o'er Chaos he design'd 
The outlines of this world; and through 

That spread of darkness — like the bow, 
Call'd out of rain-clouds, hue by hue — 

Saw the grand gradual picture grow ! — 
The covenant with human kind 

Which God has made=-the chains of Fate 
He round himself and them hath twined, 

Till his high task he consummate — 

Till good from evil, love from hate, 
Shall be. work'd out through sin and pain, 
And Fate shall loose her iron chain, 
And all be free, be bright again ! 



Such were the deep-drawn mysteries, 

And some, perhaps, even more profound, 
More wildering to the mind than these, 

Which — far as woman's thought could sound 
Or a fallen outlaw'd spirit reach — 
She dared to learn, and I to teach. 
Till — fill'd with such unearthly lore, 

And mingling the pure light it brings 
With much that Fancy had, before, 

Shed in false tinted glimmerings — 
The enthusiast girl spoke out, as one, 

Inspired, among her own dark race, 
Who from their altars, in the sun 
Left standing half adorn'd, would run 

To gaze upon her holier face. 
And, though but wild the things she spoke, 
Yet 'mid that play of error's smoke 

Into fair shapes by fancy curl'd, 
Some gleams of pure religion broke — 
Glimpses that have not yet awoke, 

But startled the still dreaming world ! 
Oh ! many a truth, remote, sublime, 

Which God would from the minds of men 
Have kept conceal'd, till his own time, 

Stole out in these revealments then — 
Revealments dim, that have fore-run, 
By ages, the bright, Saving One P 
Like that imperfect dawn, or light 

Escaping from the Zodiac's signs, 
Which makes the doubtful East half bright 

Before the real morning shines ! 

Thus did some moons of bliss go by — 

Of bliss to her, who saw but love 
And knowledge throughout earth and sky; 
To whose enamour'd soul and eye, 
I seem'd, as is the sun on high, 

The light of all below, above, 
The spirit of sea, land, and air, 
Whose influence, felt every where, 
Spread from its centre, her own heart, 
Even to the world's extremest part — 
While through that world her reinless mind 

Had now career'd so fast and far, 
That earth itself seem'd left behind, 
And her proud fancy unconfined, 

Already saw heaven's gates a-jar ! 

Happy enthusiast ! still, oh still, 
Spite of my own heart's moital chill, 
Spite of that double-fronted sorrow, 

Which looks at once before and back, 
Beholds the yesterday, the morrow, 

And sees both comfortless, both black- 
Spite of all this, I could have still 
In her delight forgot all ill ; 
Or, if pain would not be forgot, 
At least have borne and murmur'd not. 
When thoughts of an offended Heaven, 

Of sinfulness, which I — even I, 



1 It is the opinion of some of the Fathers, that the know 
led^e which the heathens possessed of the Providence of 
God, a future state, and other sublime doctrines of Chris- 
tianity, was derived from the premature revelations of these 
fallen angels to the women of earth. — See Note 



THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 



305 



While down its steep most headlong driven,- 
Well knew could never be forgiven, 

Came o'er me with an agony 
Beyond all reach of mortal woe, — 
A torture kept for those who know, 
Know every thing, and, worst of all, 
Know and love virtue while they fall ! — 
Even then her presence had the power 

To sooth, to warm, — nay, even to bless — 
If ever bliss could graft its flower 
On stem so full of bitterness — 
Even then her glorious smile to me 

Brought warmth and radiance, if not balm, 
Like moonlight on a troubled sea, 

Brightening the storm it cannot calm. 
Oft, too, when that disheartening fear, 
Which all who love beneath the sky 
Feel, when they gaze on what is dear — 
The dreadful thought that it must die ! 
That desolating thought, which comes 
Into men's happiest hours and homes ; 
Whose melancholy boding flings 
Death's shadow o'er the brightest things, 
Sicklies the infant's bloom, and spreads 
The grave beneath young lovers' heads ! 
This fear, so sad to all — to me 

Most full of sadness, from the thought 
That I must still live on, when she 
Would, like the snow that on the sea 
Fell yesterday, in vain be sought — 
That Heaven to me the final seal 

Of all earth's sorrow would deny, 
And I eternally must feel 

The death-pang, without power to die ! 
Even this, her fond endearments — fond 
As ever twisted the sweet bond 
'Twixt heart and heart — could charm away : 
Before her look no clouds would stay, 
Or, if they did, their gloom was gone, 
Their darkness put a glory on ! 
There seem'd a freshness in her breath, 
Beyond the reach, the power of death ! 
And then, her voice — oh, who could doubt 
That 't would for ever thus breathe out 
A music, like the harmony 
Of the tuned orbs, too sweet to die ! 
While in her lip's awakening touch 
There thrill'd a life ambrosial — such 
As mantles in the fruit steep'd through 
With Eden's most delicious dew — 
Till I could almost think, though known 
And loved as human, they had grown 
By bliss, celestial as my own ! 
But 't is not, 't is not for the wrong, 
The guilty, to be happy long ; 
And she, too, now, had sunk within 
The shadow of a tempter's sin — 
Shadow of death, whose withering frown 
Kills whatsoe'er it lights upon — 
Too deep for even her soul to shun 
The desolation it brings down ! 
Listen, and if a tear there be 
Left in your hearts, weep it for me 

'T was on the evening of a day, 
Which we in love had dream'd away : 
2Q 



In that same garden, where, beneath 
The silent earth, stripp'd of my wreath, . 
And furling up those wings, whose light 
For mortal gaze were else too bright, 
I first had stood before her sight ; 
And found myself— oh, ecstasy, 

Which even in pain I ne'er forget — 
Worshipp'd as only God should be, 
And loved as never man was yet ! 
In that same garden we were now, 

Thoughtfully side by side reclining, 
Her eyes turn'd upward, and her brow 

With its own silent fancies shining. 
It was an evening bright and still 

As ever blush'd on wave or bower, 
Smiling from Heaven, as if nought ill 
Could happen in so sweet an hour. 
Yet, I remember, both grew sad 

In looking at that light — even she, 
Of heart so fresh, and brow so glad, 

Felt the mute hour's solemnity, 
And thought she saw, in that repose, 
The death-hour not alone of light, 
But of this whole fair world — the close 

Of all things beautiful and bright — 
The last grand sun-set, in whose ray 
Nature herself died calm away! 

At length, as if some thought, awaking 

Suddenly, sprung within her breast — 
Like a young bird, when day-light breaking 

Startles him from his dreamy nest — 
She turn'd upon me her dark eyes, 

Dilated into that full shape 
They took in joy, reproach, surprise, 

As if to let more soul escape, 
And, playfully as on my head 
Her white hand rested, smiled and said :— 

" I had, last night, a dream of thee, 
Resembling those divine ones, given, 

Like preludes to sweet minstrelsy, 

Before thou earnest, thyself, from heaven 

The same rich wreath was on thy brow, 
Dazzling as if of star-light made ; 

And these wings, lying darkly now, 

Like meteors round thee flash'd and play'd. 

All bright as in those happy dreams 
Thou stood'st, a creature to adore 

No less than love, breathing out beams, 
As flowers do fragrance, at each pore ! 

Sudden 1 felt thee draw me near 
To thy pure heart, where, fondly placed, 

I seem'd within the atmosphere 
Of that exhaling light embraced; 

And, as thou held'st me there, the flame 
Pass'd from thy heavenly soul to mine, 

Till — oh, too blissful — I became, 
Like thee, all spirit, all divine. 

Say, why did dream so bright come o'er me 
If, now I wake, 't is faded, gone ? 

When will my Cherub shine before me 
Thus radiant, as in heaven he shone ? 



# 



306 



MOORE S WORKS. 



w When shall I, waking, be allow'd 
To gaze upon those perfect charms, 

And hold thee thus, without a cloud, 
A chill of earth, within my arms ? 

" Oh what a pride to say — this, this 

Is my own Angel — all divine, 
And pure, and dazzling as he is, 

And fresh from heaven, he 's mine, he 's mine ! 

" Think'st thou, were Lilis in thy place, 

A creature of yon lofty skies, 
She would have hid one single grace, 

One glory from her lover's eyes ? 

"No, no — then, if thou lov'st like me, 
Shine out, young Spirit, in the blaze 

Of thy most proud divinity, 
Nor think thou'lt wound this mortal gaze. 

" Too long have I look'd doating on 
Those ardent eyes, intense even thus — 

Too near the stars themselves have gone, 
To fear aught grand or luminous. 

" Then doubt me not — oh, who can say 
But that this dream may yet come true, 

And my blest spirit drink thy ray 
Till it becomes all heavenly too ? 

*' Let me this once but feel the flame 
Of those spread wings, the very pride 

Will change my nature, and this frame 
By the mere touch be deified !" 

Thus spoke the maid, as one, not used 
To be by man or God refused — 
As one, who felt, her influence o'er 

All creatures, whatsoe'er they were, 
And, though to heaven she could not soar, 

At least would bring down heaven to her ! 

Little did she, alas, or I — 

Even I, whose soul, but half-way yet 
Immerged in sin's obscurity, 
Was as the planet where we lie, 

O'er half whose disk the sun is set — 
Little did we foresee the fate, 

The dreadful — how can it be told ? 
Oh God ! such anguish to relate 

Is o'er again to feel, behold ! 
But, charged as 't is, my heart must speak 
Its sorrow out, or it will break ! 

Some dark misgivings had, I own, 

Pass'd for a moment through my breast — 

Fears of some danger, vague, unknown, 
To one, or both — something unbless'd 
To happen from this proud request. 

But soon these boding fancies fled ; 
Nor saw I ought that could forbid 

My full revealment, save the dread 
Of that first dazzle, that unhid 
And bursting glory on a lid 

Untried in heaven — and even this glare 

She might, by love's own nursing care, 

Be, like young eagles, taught to bear. 

For well I knew the lustre shed 

From my nch wings, when proudliest spread, 



Was, in its nature, lambent, pure, 

And innocent as is the light 
The glow-worm hangs out to allure 

Her mate to her green bower at night 

Oft had I, in the mid-air, swept 

Through clouds in which the lightning slept, 

As in his lair, ready to spring, 

Yet waked him not — though from my wing 

A thousand sparks fell glittering ! 

Oft too when round me from above 

The feather'd snow (which, for its whiteness, 
In my pure days I used to love) 
Fell like the moultings of Heaven's Dove, — 

So harmless, though so full of brightness, 
Was my brow's wreath, that it would shake 
From off its flowers each downy flake 
As delicate, unmelted, fair t 
And cool as they had fallen there ! 
Nay even with Lilis — had I not 
Around her sleep in splendour come— 
Hung o'er each beauty, nor forgot 

To print my radiant lips en some? 
And yet, at morn, from that repose, 

Had she not waked, unscathed and bright, 
As doth the pure, unconscious rose, 

Though by the fire-fly kiss'd all night ? 
Even when the rays I scatter'd stole 
Intensest to her dreaming soul, 
No thrill disturb'd the insensate frame — 
So subtle, so refined that flame, 
Which, rapidly as lightnings melt 

The blade within the unharm'd sheath, 
Can, by the outward form unfelt, 

Reach and dissolve the soul beneath ! 

Thus having (as, alas, deceived 

By my sin's blindness, I believed) 

No cause for dread, and those black eyes 

There fix'd upon me-, eagerly 
As if the unlocking of the skies 

Then waited but a sign from me — 
How was I 'to refuse ? how say 

One word that in her heart could stir ' 
A fear, a doubt, but that each ray 

I brought from heaven belong'd to her ? 
Slow from her side I rose, while she 
Stood up, too, mutely, tremblingly, 
But not with fear — all hope, desire, 

She waited for the awful boon, 
Like priestesses, with eyes of fire 

Watching the rise of the full moon, 
Whose beams — they know, yet cannot shun— 
Will madden them when look'd upon ! 
Of all my glories, the bright crown, 
Which, when I last from heaven came down, 
I left — see, where those clouds afar 

Sail through the west — there hangs it yet, 
Shining remote, more like a star 

Than a fallen angel's coronet— 
Of all my glories, this alone 

Was wanting — but the illumined brow 
The curls, like tendrils that had grown 

Out of the sun — the eyes, that now 
Had love's light added to their own, 
And shed a blaze, before unknown 



THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 



3C7 



Even to themselves — the unfolded wings, 
From which, as from two radiant springs, 
Sparkles fell fast around, like spray — 
All I could bring of heaven's array, 

Of that rich panoply of charms 
A cherub moves in, on the day 
Of his best pomp, I now put on ; 
And, proud that in her eyes I shone 

Thus glorious, glided to her arms, 
Which still (though at a sight so splendid 

Her dazzled brow had instantly 
Sunk on her breast) were wide extended 

To clasp the form she durst not see ! 

Great God ! how could thy vengeance light 
So bitterly on one so bright ? 
How could the hand, that gave such charms, 
Blast them again, in love's own arms ? 
Scarce had I touch'd her shrinking frame, 

When — oh most horrible ! — I felt 
That every spark of that pure flame — 

Pure, while among the stars I dwelt — 
Was now by my transgression turn'd 
Into gross, earthly fire, which burn'd, 
Burn'd all it touch'd, as fast as eye 

Could follow the fierce ravening flashes, 
Till there— oh God ! I still ask why 
Such doom was hers ? — I saw her lie 

Blackening within my arms to ashes ! 
Those cheeks, a glory but to see — 

Those lips, whose touch was what the first 
Fresh cup of immortality 

Is to a new-made angel's thirst ! 
Those arms, within whose gentle round, 
My heart's horizon, thefwhole bound 
Of its hope, prospect, heaven was found ! 
Which, even in this dread moment, fond 

As when they first were round me cast, 
Loosed not in death the fatal bond, 

But, burning, held me to the last — 
That hair, from under whose dark veil, 
The snowy neck, like a white sail 
At moonlight seen 'twixt wave and wave, 
Shone out by gleams — that hair, to save 
But one of whose long glossy wreaths, 
I could have died ten thousand deaths !— 
All, all, that seem'd, one minute since, 
So fall of love's own redolence, 
Now, parch'd and black, before me lay, 
Withering in agony away ; , 
And mine, oh misery ! mine the flame, 
From which this desolation came — 
And I the fiend, whose foul caress 
Had blasted all that loveliness ! 

'T was madd'ning, 't was — but hear even worse — 
Had death, death only, been the curse 
I brought upon her — had the doom 
But ended here, when her young bloom 
Lay in the dust, and did the spirit 
No part of that fell curse inherit, 
'T were not so dreadful — but, come near— 
Too shocking 't is for earth to hear — 
Just when her eyes, in fading, took 
Their last, keen, agonized farewell, 



And look'd in mine with — oh, that look ! 

Avenging Power, whate'er the hell 
Thou may'st to human souls assign, 
The memory of that look is mine ! — 
In her last struggle, on my brow 

Her ashy lips a kiss impress'd, 
So withering ! — I feel it now — 

'T was fire — but fire, even more unbless'd 
Than was my own, and like that flame, 
The angels shudder but to name, 
Hell's everlasting element ! 

Deep, deep it pierc'd into my brain, 
Madd'ning and torturing as it went, 

And here— see here, the mark, the stain 
It left upon my front — burnt in 
By that last kiss of love and sin — 
A brand, which even the wreathed pride 
Of these bright curls, still forced aside 
By its foul contact, cannot hide ! 

But is it thus, dread Providence — 

Can it, indeed, be thus, that she, 
Who, but for one proud, fond offence, 

Had honour'd Heaven itself, should be 
Now doom'd — I cannot speak it — no, 
Merciful God ! it is not so — 
Never could lips divine have said 
The fiat of a fate so dread. 
And yet, that look — that look, so fraught 

With more than anguish, with despair- 
That new, fierce fire, resembling nought 

In heaven or earth — this scorch I bear !— 
Oh, — for the first time that these knees 

Have bent before thee since my fall, 
Great Power, if ever thy decrees 

Thou couldst for prayer like mine recaL 
Pardon that spirit, and on me, 

On me, who taught her pride to err, 
Shed out each drop of agony 

Thy burning phial keeps for her ! 
See, too, where low beside me kneel 

Two other outcasts, who, though gone 
And lost themselves, yet dare to feel 

And pray for that poor mortal one. 
Alas, too well, too well they know 
The pain, the penitence, the woe 
That Passion brings down on the best, 
The wisest and the loveliest. — 
Oh, who is to be saved, if such 

Bright erring souls are not forgiven ? 
So loth they wander, and so much 

Their very wanderings lean tow'rds heavea 
Again I cry, Just God, transfer 

That creature's sufferings all to me — 

Mine, mine the guilt, the torment be— 
To save one minute's pain to her, 

Let mine last all eternitv ! 



He paused, and to the earth bent down 
His throbbing head ; while they, who fek 

That agony as 't were their own, 
Those angel youths, beside him knelc, 

And, in the night's still silence there, 

While mournfully each wandering air 



308 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Pla) 'd in those plumes, that never more 
To their lost home in heaven must soar, 
Breath'd inwardly the voiceless prayer, 
Unheard by all but Mercy's ear — 
And which if Mercy did not hear, 
Oh, God would not be what this bright 

And glorious universe of his, 
This world of beauty, goodness, light, 

And endless love, proclaims He is ! 

Not long they knelt, when, from a wood 
That crown'd that airy solitude, 
They heard a low, uncertain sound, 
As from a lute, that just had found 
Some happy theme, and murmur'd round 
The new-born fancy — with fond tone, 
Like that of ring-dove o'er her brood — 
Scarce thinking aught so sweet its own ! 
Till soon a voice that match'd as well 

That gentle instrument, as suits 
The sea-air to an ocean-shell 

(So kin its spirit to the lute's,) 
Tremblingly follow'd the soft strain, 
Interpreting its joy, its pain, 

And lending the light wings of words 
To many a thought that else had lain 

Unfledged and mute among the chords. 

All started at the sound — but chief 

The third young Angel, in wjiose face, 
Though faded like the others, grief 

Had left a gentler, holier, trace ; 
As if, even yet, through pain and ill, 
Hope had not quit him — as if still 
Her precious pearl in sorrow's cup, 

Unmelted at the bottom lay, 
To shine again, when, all drunk up, 

The bitterness should pass away. 
Chiefly did he, though in his eyes 
There shone more pleasure than surprise, 
Turn to the wood, from whence that sound 

Of solitary sweetness broke, 
Then, listening, look delighted round 

To his bright peers, while thus it spoke :- 

" Come, pray with me, my seraph love, 

My angel-lord, come pray with me ; 
In vain to-night my lip hath strove 
To send one holy prayer above — 
The knee may bend, the lip may move, 
But pray I cannot without thee ! 

" I 've fed the altar in my bower 

With droppings from the incense-tree ; 

I 've shelter'd it from wind and shower, 

But dim it burns the livelong hour, 

As if, like me, it had no power 
Of life, or lustre, without thee ! 

** A boat at midnight sent alone 
To drift upon the moonless sea, 
A lute, whose leading chord is gone, 
A wounded bird, that hath but one 
Imperfect wing to soar upon, 
Are like what I am without thee ! 

M Then ne'er, my spirit-love, divide, 
In life or death, thyself from me ; 



But when again, in sunny pride, 
Thou walk'st through Eden, let me plide, 
A prostrate shadow by *hy side — 
Oh, happier thus than without thee !" 

The song had ceased, when from the wood- 
Where curving down that airy height. 

It reach' d the spot on which they stood — 
There suddenly shone out a light 

From a clear lamp, which, as it blazed 

Across the brow of one who raised 

The flame aloft (as if to throw 

Its light upon that group Ddow,; 

Display'd two eyes, sparkling between 

The dusky leaves, such as are seen 

By fancy only, in those faces, 
That haunHa poet's walk at even, 

Looking from out their leafy places 
Upon his dreams of love and heaven. 

'T was but a moment — the blush, brought 

O'er all her features at the thought 
Of being seen thus late, alone, 

By any but the eyes she sought, 
Had scarcely for an instant shone 
Through the dark leaves when she was gone-« 

Gone, like a meteor that o'erhead 

Suddenly shines, and, ere we 've said, 

" Look, look, how beautiful !" — 'tis fled. 

Yet, ere she went, the words, " I come, 

I come, my Nama," reach'd her ear, 

In that kind voice, familiar, dear, 
Which tells of confidence, of home, — 
Of habit, that hath drawn hearts near, 
Till they grow one — of faith sincere, 
And all that Love most loves to hear ! 
A music, breathing of the past, 

The present, and the time to be, 
Where Hope and Memory, to the last, 

Lengthen out life's true harmony ! 

Nor long did he, whom call so kind 
Summon'd away, remain behind ; 
Nor did there need much time to tell 

What they — alas, more fallen than he 
From happiness and heaven — knew well, 

His gentler love's short history ! 

Thus did it run — not as he told 

The tale himself, but as 't is graved 
Upon the tablets that, of old, 

By Cham were from the deluge saved, 
All written over with sublime 

And saddening legends of the unblest 
But glorious spirits of that time, 

And this young Angel's 'mong the rest. 

THIRD ANGEL'S STORY. 

Among the Spirits, of pure flame, 

That round the Almighty Throne abide— 

Circles of light, that from the same 
Eternal centre sweeping wide, 
Carry its beams on every side 

(Like spheres of air that waft around 

The undulations of rich sound,) 



THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 309 


Till the far-circling radiance be 


'T was first at twilight, on the shore 


•Diffused into infinity ! 


Of the smooth sea, he heard the lute 


First and immediate near the Throne, 


And voice of her he loved steal o'er 


As if peculiarly God's own, 


The silver waters, that lay mute, 


The Seraphs' stand this burning sign 


As loth, by even a breath, to stay 


Traced on their banner, " Love Divine !" 


The pilgrimage of that sweet lay ; 


Their rank, their honours, far above 


Whose echoes still went on and or, 


Even to those high-brovv'd Cherubs given, 


Till lost among the light that shone 


Though knowing all — so much doth Love 


Far off beyond the ocean's brim — 


Transcend all knowledge, even in heaven ! 


There, where the rich cascade of day 


'Mong these was Zaraph once — and none 


Had, o'er the horizon's golden rim, 


E'er felt affection's holy fire, 


Into Elysium roll'd away ! 


Or yearn'd towards the Eternal One, 


Of God she sung, and of the mild 


With half such longing, deep desire. 


Attendant Mercy, that beside 


Love was to his impassion'd soul 


His awful throne for ever smiled, 


Not, as with others, a mere part 


Ready with her white hand, to guide 


Of its existence, but the whole — 


His bolts of vengeance to their prey- 


The very life-breath of his heart ! 


That she might quench them en the way 




Of Peace — of that Atoning Love, 


Often, when from the Almighty brow 


Upon whose star, shining above 


A lustre came too bright to bear, 


This twilight world of hope and fear, 


And all the seraph ranks would bow 


The weeping eyes of Faith are fix'd 


Their heads beneath their wings, nor dare 


So fond, that with her every tear 


To look upon the effulgence there — 


The light of that love-star is mix'd !— 


This Spirit's eyes would court the blaze 


All this she sung, and such a soul 


(Sucn pride he in adoring took,) 


Of piety was in that song, 


And rather lose, in that one gaze, 


That the charm'd Angel, as it stole 


The power of looking than not look! 


Tenderly to his ear, along 


Then too, when angel voices sung 


Those lulling waters, where he lay 


The mercy of their God, and strung 


Watching the day-light's dying ray, 


Their harps to hail, with welcome sweet, 


Thought 't was a voice from out the wave, 


The moment, watch'd for by all eyes, 


An echo that some spirit gave 


' When some repentant sinner's feet 


To Eden's distant harmony, 


First touch'd the threshold of the skies, 


Heard faint and sweet beneath the sea ! 


Oh then how clearly did the voice 




Of Zaraph above all rejoice ! 
Love was in every buoyant tone, 

Such love as only could belong 
To the blest angels, and alone 


Quickly, however, to its source, 


Tracking that music's melting course, 
He saw upon the golden sand 
Of the sea-shore a maiden stand, 


Could, even from angels, bring such song ! 


Before whose feet the expiring waves 


Alas, that it should e'er have been 


Flung their last tribute with a sigh — 


The same in heaven as it is here, 


As, in the East, exhausted slaves 


Where nothing fond or bright is seen, 


Lay down the far-brought gift, and die— 


But it hath pain and peril near — 


And, while her lute hung by her, hush'd, 


Where right and wrong so close resemble, 


As if unequal to the tide 


That what we take for virtue's thrill 


Of song, that from her lips still gush'd, 


Is often the first downward tremble 


She raised, like one beatified, 


Of the heart's balance into ill — 


Those eyes, whose light seem'd rather givec 


Where Love hath not a shrine so pure, 


To be adored than to adore — 


So holy, but the serpent, Sin, 


Such eyes as may have look'd from heaven, 


In moments even the most secure, 


But ne'er were raised to it before ! 


Beneath his altar may glide in ! 




So was it with that Angel — such 


Oh Love, Religion, Music — all 


The charm that sloped his fall along 


That 's left of Eden upon earth — 


From good to ill, from loving much, 


The only blessings, since the fall 


Too easy lapse, to loving wrong. — 


Of our weak souls, that still recall 


Even so that amorous Spirit, bound 


A trace of their high glorious birth — 


By beauty's spell, where'er 't was found, 


How kindred are the dreams you bring! 


From the bright things above the moon, 


How Love, though unto earth so prone. 


Down to earth's beaming eyes descended, 


Delights to take Religion's wing, 


Till love for the Creator soon 


When time or grief hath stain'd his own" 


In passion for the creature ended ! 


How near to Love's beguiling brink, 




Too oft, entranced Religion lies. 
While Music, Music is the link 


1 The Seraphim are the Spirits of Divine Love. — See 


Note 
1 


They both still hold bv to the skies, 

• 



SJO 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The language of their native sphere, 
Which they had else forgotten here. 

How then could Zaraph fail to feel 
That moment's witcheries ? — one so fair 

Breathing out music that might steal 
Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer 
That seraphs might be proud to share ! 

Oh, he did feel it — far too well — 
With warmth that much too dearly cost— 

Nor knew he, when at last he fell, 

To which attraction, to which spell, 

Love, Music, or Devotion, most 
His soul in that sweet hour was lost. 

Sweet was the hour, though dearly won, 

And pure, as aught of earth could be, 
For then first did the glorious sun 

Before Religion's altar see 
Two hearts in wedlock's golden tie 
Self-pledged, in love to live and die- 
Then first did woman's virgin brow 

That hymeneal chaplet wear, 
Which, when it dies, no second vow 

Can bid a new one bloom out there — 
Bless'd union ! by that angel wove, 

And worthy from such hands to come ; 
Safe, sole asylum, in which Love, 
When fallen or exiled from above, 

In this dark world can find a home. 

And, though the Spirit had transgress'd, 
Had, from his station 'mong the bless'd, 
Won down by woman's smile, allow : d 

Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er 
The mirror of his heart, and cloud 

God's image, there so bright before— 
Yet never did that God look down 

On error with a brow so mild ; 
Never did justice launch a frown 

That, ere it fell, so nearly smiled. 
For gentle was their love, with awe 

And trembling like a treasure kept, 
That was not theirs by holy law, 
Whose beauty with remorse they saw, 

And o'er whose preciousness they wept. 
Humility, that low, sweet root, 
From which all heavenly virtues shoot, 
Was in the hearts of both — but most 

In Nama's heart, by whom alone 
Those charms, for which a heaven was lost, 

Seem'd all unvalued and unknown; 
And when her Seraph's eyes she caught, 

And hid hers glowing on his breast, 
Even bliss was humbled by the thought, 

"What claim have I to be so bless'd?" 

Still less could maid so meek have nursed 
Desire of knowledge — that vain thirst, 
With which the sex hath all been cursed, 
From luckless Eve to her who near 
The Tabernacle stole, to hear 
The secrets of the Angels — no — 

To love as her own seraph loved, 
With Faith, the same through bliss and woe — 

Faith that, were even its light removed. 



Could, like the dial, fix'd remain, 
And wait till it shone out again — 
With Patience that, though often bow'd 

By the rude storm, can rise anew, 
And Hope that, even from Evil's cloud, 

Sees sunny Good half breaking through'. 
This deep, relying Love, worth more 
In heaven than all a cherub's lore — 
This Faith, more sure than aught beside, 
Was the sole joy, ambition, pride, 
Of her fond heart — the unreasoning scope 

Of all its views, above, below — 
So true she felt it that to hope, 

To trust, is happier than to know. 

And thus in humbleness they trod, 
Abash'd, but pure before their God ; 
Nor e'er did earth behold a sight 

So meekly beautiful as they, 
When, with the altar's holy light 

Full on their brows, they knelt to pray, 
Hand within hand, and side by side, 
Two links of love, awhile untied 
From the great chain above, but fast 
Holding together to the last — 
Two fallen Splendors from that tree 
Which buds with such eternally, 1 
Shaken to earth, yet keeping all 
Their light and freshness in the fall. 

Their only punishment (as wrong, 

However sweet, must bear its brand,; 
Their only doom was this — that, long 

As the green earth and ocean stand, 
They both shall wander here — the same 
Throughout all time, in heart and frame- - 
Still looking to that goal sublime, 

Whose light, remote but sure, they see, 
Pilgrims of Love, whose way is Time. 

Whose home is in Eternity ! 
Subject, the while, to all the strife 
True love encounters in this life — 
The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain ; 

The chill, that turns his warmest sighs 

To earthly vapour, ere they rise ; 
The doubt he feeds on, and the pain 

That in his very sweetness lies. 
Still worse, the illusions that betray 

His footsteps to their shining brink;' 
That tempt him on his desert way 

Through the bleak world, to bend and drink, 
Where nothing meets his lips, alas, 
But he again must sighing pass 
On to that far-off home of peace, 
In which alone his thirst will cease. 

AH this they bear, but, not the less, 
Have moments rich in happiness — 
Bless'd meetings, after many a day 
Of widowhood past far away, 
When the loved face again is seen 
Close, close, with not a tear betvveen- 



1 An nllusion to the Sephiroths or Splendors of the Jew 
ish Cabbala, represented us a true, of winch God is trie 
crown or summit. — See A'ote. 



THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS 



311 



Confidings frank, without control, 
Pour'd mutually from soul to soul ; 
As free from any fear or doubt 

As is that light from chill or stainj 
The sun into the stars sheds out, 

To bo by them shed back again ! — 
That happy minglement of hearts, 

Where, changed as chymic compounds are, 
Each with its own existence parts, 

To find a new one, happier far ! 
Such are their joys — and, crowning all, 

That blessed hope of the bright hour, 
When, happy and no more to fall, 

Their spirits shall, with freshen'd power 
Rise up rewarded for their trust 

In Him, from whom all goodness springs, 
And, shaking off earth's soiling dust 

From their emancipated wings, 
Wander for ever through those skies 
Of radiance, where Love never dies ! 

In what lone region of the earth 

These pilgrims now may roam or dwell, 

God and the Angels, who look forth 
To watch their steps, alone can tell. 

But should we, in our wanderings, 



Meet a young pair, whose beauty wants 
But the adornment of bright wings, 

To look like heaven's inhabitants — 
Who shine where'er they tread, and vet 

Are humble in their earthly lot, 
As is the way-side violet, 

That shines unseen, and were it not 

For its sweet breath would be forgot — 
Whose hearts in every thought are one, 

Whose voices utter the same wills, 
Answering as Echo doth, some tone 

Of fairy music 'mong the hills, 
So like itself, we seek in vain 
Which is the echo, which the strain — 
Whose piety is love — whose love, 

Though close as 't were their souls' embrace, 
Is not of earth, but from above — 

Like two fair mirrors, face to face, 
Whose light, from one to the other thrown, 
In heaven's reflection, not their own — 
Should we e'er meet with aught so pure, 
So perfect here, we may be sure 

There is but one such pair below ; 
And, as we bless them on their way 
Through the world's wilderness, may say, 

" There Zaraph and his Nama go." 



NOTES. 



Preface, p. 295, line 21. 

An erroneous translation by the LXX. of that verse in the 
Bixth chapter of Genesis, etc. 

The error of these interpreters (and, it is said, of 
the old Italic version also) was in making it ol Kyyt- 
Xoc rov 3-eov, "the Angels of God," instead of "the 
Sons" — a mistake which, assisted by the allegorising 
comments of Philo, and the rhapsodical fictions of 
the Book of Enoch, 1 was more than sufficient to af- 
fect the imaginations of such half-Pagan writers as 
Clemens Alexandrinus, Tertullian, and Lactantius, 
who, chiefly, among the Fathers, have indulged 
themselves in fanciful reveries upon the subject. The 
greater number, however, have rejected the fiction 
with indignation. Chrysostom, in his twenty-second 
Homily upon Genesis, earnestly exposes its absurd- 
ity ; 2 and Cyril accounts such a supposition as tyyvs 
uwpias, " bordering on folly." 3 According to these 



Fathers (and their opinion has been followed by all 
the theologians, down from St. Thomas to Caryl and 
Lightfoot, 4 ) the term " Sons of God," must be under- 
stood to mean the descendants of Seth, by Enos — a 
family peculiarly favoured by Heaven, because with 
them men first began to " call upon the name of the 
Lord" — while, by "the daughters of men,'' they 
suppose that the corrupt race of Cain is, designated. 
The probability, however, is, that the words in ques- 
tion ought to have been translated "the sons of tho 
nobles or great men," as we find them interpreted in 
the Targum of Onkelos (the most ancient and accu- 
rate of all the Chaldaic paraphrases,) and as, it ap- 
pears from Cyril, the version of Symmachus also 
J rendered them. This translation of the passage re- 
moves all difficulty, and at once relieves the Sacred 
History of an extravagance, which, however it may 
suit the imagination of the poet, is inconsistent with 
all our notions, both philosophical and religious. 



1 It is lamentable to think that this absurd production, of 
which we now know the whole from Dr. Laurence's trans- 
lation, should ever have been considered as an inspired or 
authentic work. See the Preliminary Dissertation, prefixed 
to the Translation. 

2 One of the arguments of Chrysostom is, that Angels are 
no where else, in the Old Testament, called " Sons of God," — 
but his commentator, Montfaucon, shows that he is mis- 
taken, and that in the. Book of Job they are so designated, 
(c. i. v. 0.) both in the original Hebrew and the Vulgate, 
though not in the Septuagint, which alone, he says, Cliry- 
Bostom read. 

3 Lib. ii. Glaphyrorum. — Philaestrius, in his enumeration 



of heresies, classes this story of the Angels among (he num- 
ber, and says it deserves only to be ranked with those fic- 
tions about gods and goddesses, to which the fiincy of ihe 
Pagan poets gave birth :—" Sicuti et Paganorum et Poeta- 
rum mendacia asseruntdeos deasqne transforrnatos nefanda 
conjugia commisisse." — Detkeres. Edit. Basil, p. 101. 

4 Lightfoot says, "The sons of God, or the members of 
the Church, and the progeny of Seth, marrying carelessly 
and promiscuously with the daughters of men, or brood of 
Cain," etc. I find in Pole that, according to the Samaritan 
version, the phrase maybe understood as meaning »' tho 
Sons of the .fudges." — So variously may the Hebrew word, 
Elohim, be interpreted. 



312 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Page 295, line 81. 
Transmit each moment, night and day, 
The echo of His luminous word ! 

Dionysius (De Cosiest. Hierarch.) is of opinion, 
that when Isaiah represents the Seraphim as crying 
out " one unto the other," his intention is to describe 
those communications of the divine thought and will, 
which are continually passing from the higher orders 
of the angels to the lower: — ota Kai avrovsrovg Seora- 
tovs T.tpa6i}i ol SeoXoyoi (paaiv kripov irpos rov hepov Kt- 
xpaytvai, caebwg tv tovtw, KaOanep oipai, 5rj\ovvT£s, bri 
rwv Seo\oyiKU)v yvwuiwv ol xpuroi tois Stvrepots p.era- 
diSoaoi. — See also in the Paraphrase of Pachymer 
upon Dionysius, cap. 2. rather a striking passage, 
in which he represents all living creatures as being, 
in a stronger or fainter degree, " echoes of God." 

Page 296, line 19. 
One of earth's fairest womankind, 
Half veil'd from view, or rather shrined 
In the clear chrystal of a brook. 

This is given upon the authority, or rather accord- 
ing to the fancy, of some of the Fathers, who sup- 
pose that the women of earth were first seen by the 
angels in this situation ; and St. Basil has even made 
:t the serious foundation of rather a rigorous rule 
for the toilet of his fair disciples ; adding, Uavov yap 
tan napayvpivovptvov KaWos <at v'lovg $tov npog rjSo- 
vqv yorjTEvaat, Kai u>? avBpiiivovs 5ia ravrrjv ai:oQvr]CKov- 
T«5i Svnrovs a-roSei^ai. — De Vera Virginitat. torn. i. p. 
747. edit. Paris. 1618. 

Page 296, line 115. 
The Spirit of yon beauteous star. 
It is the opinion of Kircher, Ricciolus, etc. (and 
was, I believe, to a certain degree, that of Origen) that 
the stars are moved and directed by intelligences or 
angels who preside over them. Among other pas- 
sages from Scripture in support of this notion, they 
cite those words of the Book of Job, " When the 
morning stars sang together." — Upon which Kircher 
remarks, " Non de materialibus intelligitur." Itin. 1. 
Isagog. Astronom. See also Caryl's most wordy 
Commentary on the same text. 

Page 297, line 33. 

And the bright Watchers near the throne. 

" The Watchers, the offspring of Heaven." — Book 

of Enoch. In Daniel also the angels are called 

watchers : — " And behold, a watcher and an holy one 

came down from heaven. ' iv. 13. 

Page 297, line 81 
Then, too, that juice of earth, etc- etc. 

For al 1 that relates to the nature and attributes of 
angels, the time of their creation, the extent of their 
knowledge, and the power which they possess, or 
can occasionally assume, of performing such human 
functions as eating, drinking, etc. etc. I shall refer 
those who are inquisitive upon the subject to the fol- 
lowing works : — The Treatise upon the Celestial 
Hierarchy written under the name of Dionysius the 
Areopagite, in which, among much that is heavy and 
trifling, there are some sublime notions concerning 



[the agency of these spiritual creatures — The que* 
|tions "de Cognitione Angelorum" of St. Thoma3. 
where he examines most prolixly into such puzzling 
points as "whether angels illuminate each other," 
" whether they speak to each other," etc. etc. — The 
Thesaurus of Cocceius, containing extracts from 
almost every theologian that has written on the sub- 
ject—The 9th, 10th, and 11th chapters, sixth book, 
of l'Histoire des Juifs," where all the extraordinary 
reveries of the Rabbins' about angels and demons 
are enumerated— The Questions attributed to St. 
Athanasius — The Treatise of Bonaventure upon the 
Wings of the Seraphim 2 — and, lastly, the ponderous 
foiio of Suarez "de Angelis," where the reader will 
find all that has ever been fancied or reasoned, upon 
a subject which only such writers could have con- 
trived to render so dull. 

• 

Page 297, line 89. 
Then first the fatal wine-cup rain'd, etc. 
Some of the circumstances of this story were sug- 
gested to me by the Eastern legend of the two angels, 
Harut and Marut, as it is given by Mariti, who says, 
that the author of the Taalim founds upon it the Ma- 
hometan prohibition of wine. The Bahardanush tells 
the story differently. 

Page 297, line 105. 
Why, why have hapless angels eyes ? 
Tertullian imagines that the words of St. Paul, 
"Woman ought to have a veil on her head, 3 on ac- 
count of the angels" have an evident reference to the 
fatal effects which the beauty of women once pro- 
duced upon these spiritual beings. See the strange 
passage of this Father (de Virgin. Velandis,) begin- 
ning " Si enim propter angelos," etc. etc. where his 
editor Pamelius endeavours to save his morality, at 
the expense of his latinity, by substituting the word 
"excussat" for "excusat." Such instances of inde- 
corum, however, are but too common throughout the 
Fathers, in proof of which I need only refer to some 
passages in the same writer's treatise, " De Anima," — 
to the Second and Third Books of the Paedagogusof 
Clemens Alexandrinus, and to the instances which 
La Mothe le Vayer has adduced from Chrysostom in 
his Hexameron Rustique, Journee Seconde. 



1 The following may serve as specimens : — " Les anges 
ne savent point la langue Chaldaique: e'est pourquoi ils ne 
portent pointaDieu les oraisonsdeeeuxqui prient danseette 
langue. Ils se trompent souvent ; ils font deserreurs danger- 
euses ; car 1'Ange de la mort, qui est charge de faire mourn* 
un homme, en prend quelquefois un autre, ce qui cause de 
grands desordres Ils sonl charges de chan- 
ter devant Dieu le cantique, Saint, Saint est. le Dim des 
armies; mais ils ne remplissent cet office qu'une fois le 
jour, dans une semaine, duns un mois, dans un an, d;ins un 

ecle, ou dans Peternite. L'Ange qui luttoit contre Jacob 
le pressa dele laisser aller, lorsque PAurore parut, parce 
que e'etoit son tour de chanter le cantique ce jour-la, ce 
lu'il n'avoit encore jamais fait." 

2 This work (which, notwithstanding its title, is, proba- 
bly, quite as dull as the rest) I have not, myself, been able 
to see, having searched for it in vain through the King's Li- 
brary at Paris, though assisted by the zeal and kindness of 
M. I. angles and M. Vonpradt, whose liberal administration 
of that most liberal establishment, entitles them — not only 
for the immediate effect of such conduct, but for (he useful 
and civilizing example it holds forth — to the most corrbal 
gratitude of the whole literary world. 

3 Corinth xi. 10. Dr. Macknight's Translation. 






THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 



313 



Page 298, line 75. 
When Lucifer, in failing, bore 
The third of the bright Btats away; 
"And his tail drew the third part of the stars of 
heaven, and did cast them to the earth." Revelat. 
rii. 4. — Docent sancti (says Suarez) supremum ange- 
lum traxisse secum tertiam partem stellarum." Lib. 
7. cap. 7. 

Page 298, line 77. 

Rise, in earth's beauty, to repair 
That loss of light and glory there! 
The idea of the Fathers was, that the vacancies 
occasioned in the different orders of angels by the 
fall were to be filled up from the human race. There 
is, however, another opinion, backed by papal autho- 
rity, that it was only the tenth order of the Celestial 
Hierarchy that fell, and that, therefore, the promo- 
tions which occasionally take place from earth are 
intended for the completion of that grade alone : or, 
as it is explained by Salonius (Dial, in Eccl.)— " De- 
cern sunt ordines angelorum, sed unus cecidit persu- 
perbiam, et idcirco boni angeli semper laborant, ut de 
hominibus numerus adimpleatur, et proveniat ad per- 
fectum numerum, id est, denarium." According to 
some theologians, virgins alone are admitted "ad col- 
legium angelorum," but the author 1 of the" Speculum 
Peregrinarum Qusestionum" rather questions this ex- 
clusive privilege : — "Hoc nonvidetur verum,quiamul- 
ti, non virgines, ut Petrus et Magdalena, multis etiam 
virginibus eminentiores sunt.'' Decad. 2. cap. 10. 

Page 299, line 38. 
'T was Rum. 

I might have chosen, perhaps, some better name, 
but it is meant (like that of Zaraph in the following 
story) to define the particular class of spirits to which 
the angel belonged. The author of the Book of 
Enoch, who estimates at 200 the number of angels 
that descended upon Mount Hermon, for the purpose 
of making love to the women of earth, has favoured 
us with the names of their leader and chiefs — Samy- 
aza, Urakabarameel, Akibeel, Tamiel, etc. etc. 

In that heretical worship of angels which prevailed, 
to a great degree, during the first ages of Christianity, 
to name them seems to have been one of the most 
important ceremonies ; for we find it expressly for- 
bidden in one of the Canons (35th) of the council of 
Laodicea, ovojxa^av tovs ayycXovs. Josephus, too, 
mentions, among the religious rites of the Essenes, 
their swearing to preserve the names of the angels." 
—<s\ivTripr\aziv ra ruiv ayytXwv ovoixara. Bell. Jud. lib. 
2. cap. 8. — See upon this subject Van Dale, de Ong. 
et Progress. Idololat. cap. 9. 

Page 299, line 39. 

those bright creatures named 

Spirits of Knowledge. 
The word cherub signifies knowledge — to yvo^iKov 
itrujv teat Scotttikov, says Dionysius. Hence it is that 
Ezekiel, to express the abundance of their knowledge, 
represents them as "full of eyes." 



1 F. Bartholomreus Sibylla. 
2 R 



Page 299, line 78. 
Summon'd his chief angelic powers 
To witness, etc. 
St. Augustin, upon Genesis, seems rather inclined 
to admit that the angels had some share (" aliquoQ 
ministerium") in the creation of Adam and Eve. 

Page 300, line 124. 
I had beheld their First, their Eve, 
Born in that splendid Paradise. 
Whether Eve was created in Paradise or not is h 
question that has been productive of much doubt and 
controversy among the theologians. With respect to 
Adam, it is agreed on all sides that he was created 
outside ; and it is accordingly asked, with some 
warmth, by one of the commentators, " why should 
woman, the ignobler creature of the two, be created 
within?* Others, on the contrary, consider this dis- 
tinction as but a fair tribute to the superior beauty 
and purity of women ; and some, in their zeal, even 
seem to think that, if the scene of her creation was 
not already Paradise, it became so, immediately upon 
that event, in compliment to her. Josephus is one 
of those who think that Eve was formed outside ; 
Tertullian, too, among the Fathers — and, among the 
Theologians, Rupertus, who, to do him justice, never 
misses an opportunity of putting on record las ill- 
will to the sex. Pererius, however (and his opinion 
seems to be considered as the most orthodox,) thinks 
it much more consistent with the order of the Mosaic 
narration, as well as with the sentiments of Basil and 
other Fathers, to conclude that Eve was created in 
Paradise. 

Page 301, line 8. 

Her error, too. 
The comparative extent of Eve s delinquency, and 
the proportion which it bears to that of Adam, is an- 
other point which has exercised the tiresome inge- 
nuity of the Commentators ; and they seem generally 
to agree (with the exception always of Rupertus) 
that, as she was not yet created when the prohibition 
was issued, and therefore could not have heard it, (a 
conclusion remarkably confirmed by the inaccurate 
way in which she reports it to the serpent, 2 ) her share 
in the crime of disobedience is considerably lighter 
than that of Adam. 3 In corroboration of this view 
of the matter, Pererius remarks that it is to Adam 
alone the Deity addresses his reproaches for having 
eaten of the forbidden tree, because to Adam alone 
the order had been originally promulgated. So far, 
indeed, does the gallantry of another commentator, 
Hugh de St. Victor, carry him, that he looks upon the 
words " I will put enmity between thee and the wo- 
man" as a proof that the sex was from that moment 
enlisted into the service of Heaven, as the chief foe 
and obstacle which the Spirit of Evil would have to 
contend with in his inroads on this world : — " si dein- 



1 "Cur denique Evam, quae Adamo ignobilior erat, for- 
mavit intra Paradisum 1" 

2 Rupertus considers these variantes as intentional and 
prevaricatory, and as the first instance upon record of a 
wilful vitiation of the words of God, for the purpose ol 
suiting the corrupt views and propensities of human nature, 
— De Trinitat. lib. iii. cap. 5. 

3 Caietanus, indeed, pronounces it to be " minimum pee 
caturu " 



IL 



314 



MOORE'S Vi ORES. 



ceps Eva inimica Diabolo, ergo fuit grata et arnica 
Deo." 

Page 301, line 36. 
Call her — think what— his Life ! his Life ! 

Chavah (or, as it is in the Latin version, Eva). has 
be same signification as the Greek, Zoe. 

Epiphanius, among others, is not a little surprised 
at the application of such a name to Eve, so immedi- 
ately, too, after that awful denunciation of death, 
" dust thou art," etc. etc. 1 Some of the commenta- 
tors think that it was meant as a sarcasm, and spoken 
by Adam, in the first bitterness of his heart, — in the 
Bame spirit of irony (says Pererius) as that of the 
Greeks in calling their Furies, Eumenides, or Gentle. 2 
But the Bishop of Chalon rejects this supposition : — 
" Explodendi sane qui id nominis ab Adamo per iro- 
niam inditum uxori suae putant; atque quod mortis 
causa esset, amaro ioco vitam appellasse. 3 

With a similar feeling of spleen against women, 
some of these " distillateurs des Saintes Lettres" (as 
Bayle calls them,) in rendering the text " I will make 
him a help meet for Mm" translate these words 
" against or contrary to him" (a meaning which, it 
appears, the original will bear,) and represent them 
as prophetic of those contradictions and perplexities 
which men experience from women in this life. 

It is rather strange that these two instances of per 
verse commentatorship should have escaped the re 
searches of Bayle, in his curious article upon Eve. 
He would have found another subject of discussion, 
equally to his taste, in Gataker's whimsical disserta- 
tion upon Eve's knowledge of the riy^yn v^avriKY] 
and upon the notion of Epiphanius that it was taught 
her in a special revelation from Heaven. — Miscellan. 
lib. ii. cap. 3. p. 200. 

Page 302, line 113. 

Oh, Mol of my dreams ! whate'er 
Thy nature he — human, divine, 

Or but half heavenly. 
In an article upon the Fathers, which appeared, 
some years since, in the Edinburgh Review (No. 
xi.vft,) and of which I have made some little use in 
these notes (having that claim over it — as " quiddam 
notum propriumqiie" — which Lucretius gives to the 
cow over .he calf,) there is the following remark : — 
" The belief of an intercourse between angels and 
women, founded upon a false version of a text in 
Genesis, is one of those extravagant notions of St. 
Justin and other Fathers, which show how little they 
had yet purified themselves from the grossness of 
heathen mythology, and in how many respects their 
heaven was but Olympus, with other names. Yet we 
can hardly be angry with them for this one error, 
when we recollect that possibly to their enamoured 
angels we owe the fanciful world of sylphs and 
gnomes, and that at this moment we might have 
wanted Pope's most exquisite poem, if the version of 
the LXX. had translated the Book of Genesis cor- 
rectly." 



1 Kmj fiETx to aitouc-a*, ytj £*, x-xi et$ ynv ajrtXtuo-*), 

f!lT* T^V 7TUpX.aX.C-iV 'AXl V\V ijU.VfAX<TT0V OTi ftSTCt TqVZTOt,pX- 

(zxrtv TauTijv rqv /xiyxKnv t<r%iv tTruvv/jttctv. HajresTS. Sec. 
18. torn. i. edit. Paris, 1622. 

2 Lib. 6. p. 2134. 

3 Pontile Tyard. de recta nominum impositione, p. 14. | 



The following is one among many passages, wneh 
may be adduced from the Comte de Gabahs, in con- 
firmation of this remark : — "Ces enfans du ciel engen- 
drerent les geans fameux, s'etant fait aimer aux filles 
des hommes ; et les mauvais cabalistes Joseph et Philo 
(comme tous les Juifs sont ignorans,) et apres eux 
tous les auteurs que j'ai nommes tout a l'heure, out 
dit que c'etoit des anges, et n'ont pas su que c'etait 
les sylphes et les autres peuples des elemens, qui, 
sous le nom d'enfans d'Eloim, sont distingues des 
enfans des hommes." — See Entret. Second. 

Page 303, line 110. 

So high she deem'd her Cherub's love ! 
" Nihil plus desiderare potuerint quae angelos pos- 
sidebant — magno scilicet nupserant." Tertull. de 
Habitu Mulieb. cap. 2. 

Page 304, line 14. 

Then first were diamonds caught, etc. 

" Quelques gnomes, desireux de devenir immortels, 
avoient voulu gagner les bonnes graces' de nos filles, 
et leur avaient apporte des pierreries dont ils sont 
gardiens naturels : et ses auteurs ont cru, s'appuyant 
sur le livre d'Enoch mal entendu, que c'etaient des 
pieges que les anges amoureux," etc. etc. — Compte 
de Gabalis. 

Tertullian traces all the chief luxuries of female 
attire, the necklaces, armlets, rouge, and the black 
powder for the eye-lashes, to the researches of these 
fallen angels into the inmost recesses of nature, and 
the discoveries they were, in consequence, enabled 
to make, of all that could embellish the beauty of 
their earthly favourites. The passage is so remark- 
able that I shall give it entire : — " Nam et illi qui ea 
constituerant, damnati in psenam mortis deputantur : 
illi scilicet angeli, qui ad filias hominum de crelo rue- 
runt, ut haec quoque ignominia foeminag accedat. Nam 
cum et m-aterias quasdam bene occultas et artes ple- 
rasque non bene revelatas, saeculo multo magis impe- 
rito prodidissent (siquidem et metallorum opera nuda- 
verant, et herbarum ingenia traduxerant et incanta- 
tionum vires provulgaverant, et omnem curiositatem 
usque ad stellarum interpretationem designaverant) 
proprie et quasi peculiariter fceminis instrumentum 
istud muliebris glorias contulerunt : lumina lapillorum 
quibus monilia variantur, et circulos ex auro qui bus 
brachia arctantur ; et medicamenta ex fuco, quibus 
lanae colorantur, et ilium ipsum nigrum pulverem, 
quo oculorum exordia producuntur." De Habitu 
Mulieb. cap. 2. — See him also " De Cultu Fcem. cap 10. 

Page 304, line 28. 

■ the mighty magnet, set 

In Woman's form. 
The same figure, as applied to female attractions, 
occurs in a singular passage of St. Basil, of which the 
following is the conclusion : — Aia rrjv evovaav Kara 
tov appevos clvtt}$ (pvaiKrjv Svva$-£iav, w? Gitirjpos, <pipi, 
KOppudev payverts, tovto irpos ia-rov payyavcvi. De 
Vera Virginitat. torn. i. p. 727. It is but fair, however, 
to add, that Hermant, the biographer of Basil, has pro- 
nounced this most unsanctified treatise to be spurious. 

Page 304, line 37. 
I've said, " Nay, look not there, my love," etc. 
I am aware that this happv saying of Lord Albe- 



THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 



315 



marle's loses much of its grace and playfulness, by 
being put into the mouth of any but a human lover. 

Page 304 —Note. 
Clemens Alexandrinus is one of those who suppose 
that the knowledge of such sublime doctrines was 
derived from the disclosure of the angels. Stromat. 
lib. v. p. 48. To the same source Cassianus and 
others trace all impious and daring sciences, such 
as magic, alchemy, etc. " From the fallen angels 
(says Zosimus) came all that miserable knowledge 
which is of no use to the soul." — Uavra ra irovrjpa 
Kai firjbev uxpekovvra tyjv xpv^v. — Ap Photium. 

Page 304, line 91. 

light 

Escaping from the Zodiac's signs. 
" La lumiere Zodiacale n'est autre chose que 1' at- 
mosphere du soleil." — Lalande. 

Page 308, line, 108. 

as 't is graved 

Upon the tablets that, of old, 
By Cham were from the Deluge saved. 
The pillars of Seth are usually referred to as the 
depositories of ante-diluvian knowledge ; but they 
were inscribed with none but astronomical secrets. 
I have, therefore, preferred here the tablets of Cham 
as being, at least, more miscellaneous in their infor- 
mation. The following account of them is given in 
Jablonski from Cassianus : — " Quantum enim antiquae 
traditiones ferunt Cham Alius Noae, qui superstitioni- 
bus ac prnfanis fuerit artibus institutus, sciens nullum 
se posse superbis memorialem librum in arcam inferre, 
in quam erat ingressurus, sacrilegas artes ac profana 
commenta durissimis insculpsit lapidibus." 

Page 308, line 114. 
And this young Angel's 'mong the rest. 
Pachymer, in his Paraphrase on the Book de Divi- 
nis Nominibus of Dyonysius, speaking of the incarna- 
tion of Christ, says, that it was a mystery ineffable 
from all time, and " unknown even to the first and 
oldest angel," — justifying this last phrase by the au- 
thority of St. John in the Revelation. 

Page 308, line 4. 
Circles of light that from the same 
Eternal centre sweeping wide, 
Curry its beams on every side. 

See the 13th chapter of Dionysius for his notions 



of the manner in which God s ray is communicated, 
first to the Intelligences near him, and then to those 
more remote, gradually losing its own brightness aa 
it passes into a denser medium. — ttpocr(ia\\ov<ja hi rati 
Tra%vTspais vXaig, ap.vhportpav e%u ttjv SmiSotikjjv citir 



Page 310, line 20. 

Then first did woman's virgin brow 

That hymeneal chaplet wear, 
Which, when it dies, no second vow 

Can bid a new one bloom out there. 

In the Catholic church, when a widow is married, 
she is not, I believe, allowed to wear flowers on her 
head. The ancient Romans honoured with a "corona 
pudicitiae," or crown of modesty, those who entered 
but once into the marriage state. 



Page 310, line 57. 

her, who near 

The Tabernacle stole to hear 
The secrets of the Angels. 



Sara. 



Page 310, line 86. 
Two fallen Splendors. 
The Sephiroths are the higher orders of emanative 
being, in the strange and incomprehensible system of 
the Jewish Cabbala. They are called by various 
names, Pity, Beauty, etc. etc.; and their influences 
are supposed to act through certain canals, which 
communicate with each other. The reader may 
judge of the rationality of the system by the follow- 
ing explanation of part of the machinery : — " Lea 
canaux qui sortent de la Misericorde et de la Force, et 
qui vont aboutir a la Beaute, sont charges d'un grand 
nombre d'Anges. II y en a trente-cinq sur le canal 
de la Misericorde, qui recompensent et qui couronnent 
la vertu des Saints," etc. etc. For a concise account 
of the Cabalistic Philosophy, see Enfield's very useful 
compendium of Brucker. 

Page 310, line 86. 

from that tree 

Which buds with such eternally. 

" On les represente quelquefois sous la figure d'ui; 
arbre .... l'Ensoph qu'on met au-dessus de l'arbre 
Sephirotique ou des Splendeurs divines, est l'lnfini " 
— ISHistoire des Juifs, liv. ix. 11. 



IRISH MELODIES. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



Though the beauties of the National Music of Ire- 
Land have been very generally felt and acknowledged, 
yet it has happened, through the want of appropriate 
English words, and of the arrangement necessary to 
adapt them to the voice, that many of the most excel- 
lent compositions have hitherto remained in obscurity. 
It is intended, therefore, to form a Collection of the 
best Original IitrsH Melodies, with characteristic 
Symphonies and Accompaniments, and with Words 
containing as frequent as possible allusions to the 
manners and history of the country. 

In the poetical part, the Publisher has had promises 
of assistance from several distinguished Literary Cha- 
racters, particularly from Mr. Moore, whose lyrical 
talent is so peculiarly suited to such a task, and whose 
zeal in the undertaking will be best understood from 
the following extract of a letter which he has address- 
ed to Sir John Stevenson (who has undertaken the 
arrangement of the airs) on the subject : — 

" I feel very anxious that a Work of this kind should 
be undertaken. We have too long neglected the only 
talent for which our English neighbours ever deigned 
to allow us any credit. Our National Music has never 
been properly collected; 1 and, while the composers 
of the Continent have enriched their operas and 
sonatas with melodies borrowed from Ireland — very 
often without even the honesty of acknowledgment— 
we have left these treasures in a great degree un 
claimed and fugitive. Thus our airs, like too many 
of our countrymen, for want of protection at home, 
have passed into the service of foreigners. But we 
are come, I hope, to a better period both of politics 
and music ; and how much they are connected, in 
Ireland at least, appears too plainly in the tone of 
sorrow and depression which characterises most of 
our early songs. — The task which you propose to me, 
of adapting words to these airs, is by no means, easy. 
The poet, who would follow the various sentiments 
which they express, must feel and understand that 
rapid fluctuation of spirits, that unaccountable mixture 
of gloom and levity, which composes the character 
of my countrymen, and has deeply tinged their music. 
Even in their liveliest strains we find some melan- 
choly note intrude — some minor third or flat seventh 
—which throws its shade as it passes, and makes 
even mirth interesting. If Burns had been an Irish- 
man (and I would willingly give up all our claims 
upon Ossian for him,) his heart would have been 
proud of such music, and his genius would have made 
it immortal. 



"Another difficulty (which ia, however, purelf 
mechanical) arises from the irregular structure of 
many of those airs, and the lawless kind of metre 
which it will in consequence be necessary to adapt 
to them. In these instances the poet must write not 
to the eye but to the ear ; and must be content to have 
his verses of that description which Cicero mentions, 
' Quos si cantu spoliaveris, nuda remanebit oratix)' 
That beautiful air, ' The Twisting of the Rope,' which 
has all the romantic character of the Swiss Ranz des 
Vaches, is one of those wild and sentimental rakes 
which it will not be very easy to tie down in sober 
wedlock with poetry. However, notwithstanding all 
these difficulties, and the very little talent which J 
can bring to surmount them, the design appears to 
me so truly national, that I shall feel much pleasure 
in giving it all the assistance in my power 

"Leicestershire, Feb. 1807." 



1 The writer forgot, when he made this assertion, that the 
Public are indebted to Mr. Bunting for a very valuable col- 
lection of Irish Music; and that the patriotic genius of Miss 
Owenson has been employed upon some of our finest Airs. 



IRISH MELODIES. 

No. I. 



GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE 
Air — Maid of the Valley. 
Go where glory waits thee, 
But, while fame elates thee, 

Oh ! still remember me. 
When the praise thou meetest 
To thine ear is sweetest, 

Oh ! then remember me. 
Other arms may press thee, 
Dearer friends caress thee, 
All the joys that bless thee 

Sweeter far may be ; 
But when friends are nearest, 
And when joys are dearest, 

Oh ! then remember me. 

When at eve thou rovest 
By the star thou lovest, 

Oh ! then remember me. 
Think, when home returning, 
Bright we've seen it burning— 

Oh ! fhus remember me. 
Oft as summer closes, 
When thine eye reposes, 
On its lingering roses, 

Once so loved by thee — 
Think of her who wove them, 
Her who made thee love them— 

Oh ! then remember me. 

When, around thee dying, 
Autumn leaves are lying, 
Oh ! then remember me 



i 



IRISH MELODIES 



817 



And, at night, when gazing 
On the gay hearth blazing, 

Oh ! still remember me. 
Then should music, stealing 
All the soul ofjeeling, 
To thy hean appealing, 

Draw one tear from thee , 
Then let memory bring thee 
Strains I used to sing thee — ■ 

Oh ! then remember me. 



WAR SONG. 

REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE 
BRAVE.i 

Air — Molly Macalpin.. 

Remember the glories of Brien the brave, 

Though the days of the hero are o'er ; 
Though lost to Mononia 2 and cold in the grave, 

He returns to Kinkora 3 no more ! 
That star of the field, which so often has pour'd 

Tts beam on the battle, is set ; 
But enough of its glory remains on each sword 

To light us to victory yet ! 

Mononia ! when nature embellish'd the tint 

Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, 
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print 

Thir footstep of Slavery there ? 
No, Freedom ! whose smile we shall never resign, 

Go, tel! our invaders, the Danes, 
That 't is sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, 

Than to sleep but a moment in chains ! 

Forget not our wounded companions who stood 4 

In the day of distress by our side ; 
While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood 

They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died ! 
The sun that now blesses our arms with his light, 

Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ! — 
Oh<! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, 

To find that they fell there in vain ! 



ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN 

THINE EYES. 

Air — Aileen Aroon. 

Erin ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes 

Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies ! 



1 Brien Borombe, the great Monarch of Ireland, who was 
killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th 
century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five 
engagements. 

2 Monster. 3 TKe palace of Brien. 

4 This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of 
the Dalgais, the favourite troops of Brian, when they were 
interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by 
Fitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated 
that they might be allowed to fight with the rest. — " Let 
stakes (they said) be stuck in the ground, and suffer each 
of us, tied and supported by one of these stakes, to be 
vlaced in his rank by the side of a sound man.'" " Be- 
tween seven and eight hundred wounded men (adds O^Hal- 
loran,) pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, ap- 
peared mixed with the foremost of the troops : — never was 
«uch another sight exhibited." — History of Ireland, Book, 
12, Chap 1 



Shining through sorrow's stream, 
Saddening through pleasure's beam, 
Thy suns, with doubtful gleam, 
Weep while they rise ! 

Erin ! thy silent tear never shall cease, 
Erin ! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, 

Till, like the rainbow's light, 

Thy various tints unite, 

And form, in Heaven's sight, 
One arch of peace ! 



OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 

Air — The Brown Maid. 

Oh ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade 
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid : 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, 
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head i 

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it 

weeps, 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps; 
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 



WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE. 

Air — The Fox's Sleep. 

When he who adores thee has left but the name 

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh ! say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resign'd ? 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, 

Thy tears shall efface their decree ; 
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 

I have been too faithful to thee ! 

With thee were the dreams of my earnest love 

Every thought of my reason was thine ; 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine ! 
Oh ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live 

The days of thy glory to see ; 
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee ! 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH 
TARA'S HALLS. 

Air — Gramachree. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts that once beat high for praise 

Now feel that pulse no more ' 



S19 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone, that breads at night, 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, ^ 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives ! 



FLY NOT YET. 

Air — Planxty Kelly. 
Fly not yet, 't is just the hour 
When pleasure, like the midnight flower 
That scorns the eye of vulgar light, 
Begins to bloom for sons of night, 

And maids who love the moon ! 
'T was but to bless these hours of shade 
That beauty and the moon were made ; 
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing 
Set the tides and goblets flowing. 

Oh ! stay— Oh ! stay — 
Joy so seldom weaves a chain 
Like this to-night, that oh ! 't is pain 

To break its links so soon. 

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd 

In times of old through Ammon's shade, 1 

Through icy cold by day it ran, 

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began 

To Durn when night was near: 
And thus should woman's heart and looks 
At noon be cold as winter brooks, 
Nor kindle till the night, returning, 
Brings their genial hour for burning. 

Oh! stay— Oh! stay- 
When did morning ever break, 
And find such beaming eyes awake 

As those that sparkle here ! 



OH ! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE AL- 
WAYS AS LIGHT. 

Air — John O'Reilly the Active. 
Oh ' think not my spirits are always as light, 

And as free from a pang as they seem to you now ; 
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night 

Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. 
No — life is a waste of wearisome hours, 

"Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; 
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers 

Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns ! 
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile ; 

May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, 
Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile, 

And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear. 

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows, 
If it were not with friendship and love intertwined ; 

And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, 
When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my 
mind! 



1 Solis Pons, near the temple of Amnion. 



But they who have loved the fondest, the purest, 

Too often have wept o er the dream they believed , 
And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest 

Is happy indeed if 't were never deceived. 
But send round the bowl — while a relic of truth 

Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine,— 
That the sun-shine of love may illumine our youth, 

And the moonlight of friendship console our de- 
cline. 



THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN 
WITH SORROW I SEE, 

Air — Coulin. 
Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, 
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ; 
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, 
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam 

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, 
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, 
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind 
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind 

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes, 
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ; 
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear 
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.' 



RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE 
WORE. 2 

Air — The Summer is coming. 
Rich and rare were the gems she wore, 
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; 
But oh ! her beauty was far beyond 
Her sparkling gfems or snow-white wand. 

" Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray, 

So lone and lovely, through this bleak way ? 

Are Erin's sons so good or so cold 

As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?" 



1 "In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. 
an act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general 
of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being 
shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing glibbes, 01 
Coulins (long locks,) on their heads, or hair on their upper 
lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was writtei 
by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give 
the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the 
flowing locks,) to all strangers (by which the English were 
meant,) or those who wore their habits. Of this song thfc 
air alone has reached us, and is universally admired. "-~ 
Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, page 134. 
Mr. Walker informs us also, that, about the same period, 
were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels 

2 This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote! 
"The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour 
virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by 
his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are 
informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with 
jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone from 
one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only ip 
her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great 
value ; and such an impression had the laws and government 
of this Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that 
no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed 
of her clothes or jewels." — Warner's History of Ireland. 
Vol. i. Book 10. 



IRISH MELODIES. 



339 



" Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm, 
No son of Erin will offer me harm — 
I or though they love woman and golden store, 
Sir Knight ! they love honour and virtue more !' 

On she went, and her maiden smile 
In safety lighted her round the green isle. 
And blest for ever is she who relied 
Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride ! 



AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE 
WATERS MAY GLOW. 
Air — The Young Man's Dream. 
As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow 
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, 
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, 
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. 

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws 
Its bieak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes, 
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring, 
For which joy has no balm, and affliction no sting! — 

Oh ! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, 
Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray; 
The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, — 
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again ! 



THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 1 

Air — The Old Head of Denis. 
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; 2 
Oh ! the last ray of feeling and life must depart, 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. 

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
'T was not the soft magic of streamlet or hill— 
Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still. 

'Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom were near, 
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, 
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, 
When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 

Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest 

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, 

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world 

should cease, 
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. 



No. II. 



ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. 
Air — The Brown Thorn. 

ST. SENANUS. 

" Oh ! haste, and leave this sacred isle, 
Unholy bark, ere morning smile ; 



For on thy deck, though dark it be, 

A female form I see ; 
And I have sworn this sainted sod 
Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod , " 1 

THE LADY. 

" Oh ! Father, send not hence my bark 
Through wintry winds and billows dark 
I come, with humble heart, to share 

Thy morn and evening prayer ; 
Nor mine the feet, oh ! holy Saint, 
The brightness of thy sod to taint." 

The lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd ; 
The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd 
But legends hint, that had the maid 

Till morning's light delay'd, 
And given the saint one rosy smile, 
She ne'er had left his lonely isle 



HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. 

Am— The Twisting of the Rope. 
How dear to me the hour when day-light dies, * 

Ahd sun-beams melt along the silent sea, 
For then sweet dreams of other days arise, 

And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thoe. 

And, as I watch the line of light that plays 
Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, 

I long to tread that golden path of rays, 
And think 't would lead to some bright isle of rest 



TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. 

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK. 

Air — Dermott. 
Take back the virgin page, 

White and unwritten still ; 
Some hand more calm and sage 

The leaf must fill. 
Thoughts come as pure as light, 

Pure as even you require : 
But oh ! each word I write 

Love turns to fire. 

Yet let me keep the book ; 
Oft shall my heart renew, 



1 " The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that 
beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Ark- 
low, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were sug- 
gested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of 1807. 

2 The rivers Avon and Avoca. 



1 In a metrical life of St. Senanus, taken from an old 
Kilkenny MS. and which may be found among the Jicta 
Sanctorum Hibernia:, we are to'd of his flight to the island 
of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of 
the party ; he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cat 
nera, whom an angel had taken to the island, for the express 
purpose of introducing her to him. The following was the 
ungracious answer of Senanus, according to his poetical 
biographer: 

Cui Prrcsul, quid fceminis 
Commune est cum monachis? 
Nee te nee ullam aliarn 
Admittemus in insulam. 

See the Acta Sanct. Hib. page 610. 
According to Dr. Ledwich, St. Senanus was no less a 
personage than the river Shannon ; but O'Connor, and other 
antiijuarians deny this metamorphose indignantly 




320 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



When on its leaves I look, 

Dear thoughts of you ! 
Like you, "t is fair and bright; 

Like you, too bright and fair 
To let wild passion write 

One wrong wish there ! 

Haply, when from those eyes 

Far, far away I roam, - 
Should calmer thoughts arise 

Towards you and home, 
Fancy may trace some line 

Worthy those eyes to meet ; 
Thoughts that not burn, but shine 

Pure, calm, and sweet ! 

And, as the records are. 

Which wandering seamen neep, 
Led by their hidden star 

Through the cold deep — 
So may the words I write 

Tell through what storms I stray 
You still the unseen light 

Guiding my way ! 



THE LEGACY. 

Air — Unknovm. 
When in death I shall calm recline, 

O bear my heart to my mistress dear ; 
Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine 

Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here : 
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow 

To sully a heart so brilliant and light ; 
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, 

To bathe the relic from morn till night. 

When the light of my song is o'er, 

Then take my harp to your ancient, hall 
Hang it up at that friendly door, 

Where weary travellers love to call. 1 
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, 

Revive its soft note in passing along, 
Oh ! let one thought of its master waken 

Your warmest smile for the child of song 

Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing, 

To grace your revel when I'm at rest ; 
Never, oh ! never its balm bestowing 

On lips that beauty hath seldom blest ! 
But when some warm devoted lover 

To her he adores shall bathe its brim, 
Then, then my spirit around shall hover, 

And hallow each drop that foams for him. 



HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED. 

Air— The Dear Black Maid. 
How oft has the Benshee cried ! 
How oft has death untied 



1 " In every house was one or two harps, free to all tra- 
vellers, who were the more caressed the more they excelled 
.n music ,, —0' 1 Halloran. 



Bright links that Glory wove, 

Sweet bonds, entwined by Love ! 
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth ! 
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth ! 

Long may the fair and brave 

Sigh o'er the hero's grave. 

We're fallen upon gloomy days, 1 

Star after star decays, 

Every bright name, that shed 

Light o'er the land, is fled. 
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth 
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth ; 

But brightly flows the tear 

Wept o'er a hero's bier ! 

Oh ! quench'd are our beacon-lights— 
Thou, of the hundred fights ! 2 
Thou, on whose burning tongue 3 
Truth, peace and freedom hung ! 
Both mute — but long as valour shineth, 
Or mercy's soul at war repineth, 
So long shall Erin's pride 
Tell how they lived and died. 



WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD 

Air — Gary one. 

We may roam through this world like a child at a 
feast, 

Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest; 
And when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, 

We may order our wings and be off to the west* 
But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile, 

Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, 
We never need leave our own green isle, 

For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, 

Through this world whether eastward or westward 
you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round 

Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home 

In England, the garden of beauty is kept 

By a dragon of prudery, placed within call ; 
But so oft this unamiable dragonMias slept, 

That the garden 's but carelessly watch'd after alL 
Oh ! they want the wild sweet briery fence, 

Which round the flowers of Erin dwells, 
Which warms the touch, while winning the sense, 

Nor charms us least wh^n it most repels. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, 

Through this world whether eastward or westward 
you roam, 



1 1 have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish charac- 
ter which i#is my object to preserve throughout this work, 
to allude to the sad and ominous fatality by which England 
has been deprived of so many great and good men at a mo- 
ment when she most requires all the aids of talent and in- 
tegrity. 

2 This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nel- 
son before, islhe title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a 
poem by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in 
the "Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland," pa are 
433. " Con, of the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown 
tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories!' 

3 Fox, "ultimus Romanorum.'* 



IRISH MELODIES. 



521 



When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, 
Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. 

In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail, 

On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, 
Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, 

But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye ! 
While the daughters of Erin keep the boy 

Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, 
Through billows of woe and beams of joy 
' The same as he look'd when he left the shore. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown' d, 

Through this world whether eastward or westward 
you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, 

Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. 



EVELEEN'S BOWER 

Air — Unknown. 

Oh ! weep for the hour, 

When to Eveleen's bower 
The Lord of the valley with false vows came; 

The moon hid her light 

From the heavens that night, 
And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame. 

The clouds pass'd soon 

From the chaste cold moon, 
And Heaven smiled again with her vestal flame ; 

But none will see the day, 

When the clouds shall pass away, 
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame. 

The white snow lay 

On the narrow path-way, 
Where the Lord of the valley cross'd over the moor ; 

And many a deep print 

On the white snow's tint 
Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door. 

The next sun's ray 

Soon melted away 
Every trace on the path where the false Lord came ; 

But there 's a light above 

Which alone can remove 
That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame. 



LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD. 

Air— The Red Fox. 
Let Erin remember the days of old, 

Ere her faithless sons betray'd her; 
When Malaehi wore the collar of gold, 1 

Which he won from her proud invader ; 
When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd, 

Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ; — 2 
Ere the emerald gem of the western worJti 

Was set in the crown of a stranger. 



1 "This brought on an encounter between Malaehi (the 
Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in 
which Malaehi defeated two of their champions, whom he 
encountered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of 
gold from the neck of one, and carryins off the sword of the 
other, as trophies of his victory." — Warner's History of 
Ireland, vol. i. book 9. 

2 " Military orders of knights were very early established 

2S 



On Lough Neagh's bank as the fishermen strays, 1 

When the clear, cold eve 's declining, 
He sees the round towers of other days, 

In the wave beneath him shining ! 
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, 

Catch a glimpse of the days that are o T :cr ; 
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time 

For the long-faded glories they cover ! 



THE SONG OF FIONNUALA. 2 

A ir — Arrah my dear Eveleen. 
Silent, oh Moyle ! be the roar of thy water, 

Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, 
While murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter 

Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. 
When shall the swan, her death-note singing, 

Sleep with wings in darkness furl'd ? 
When will Heaven, its sweet bell ringing, ! 

Call my spirit from this stormy world ? 

Sadly, oh Moyle ! to thy winter wave weeping, 

Fate bids me languish long ages away ; 
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, 

Still doth the pure light its dawning delay 1 
When will that day-star, mildly springing, 

Warm our isle with peace and love ? 
When will Heaven, its sweet bell ringing, 

Call my spirit to the fields above ? 



COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. 

Air — We br ought the Summer with us. 
Come, send round the wine, and leave points of b©» 
lief 
To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools ; 
This moment 's a flower too fair and brief, 

To be withered and stain'd by the dust of tho 
schools. 



in Ireland. Long before the birth ol Christ, we find a here- 
ditary order of chivalry in Ulster, called Cura id/ie na Cra- 
oibhe ruadk, or the knights of the Red Branch, from their 
chief seat in Emnnia, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster 
kings, called Teagh na Craoibhc ruadh, or the Academy of 
the Red Branch ; and contiguous to which was a large hos- 
pital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Brow 
bkearg, or the house of the sorrowful soldier." — O'Hallo- 
ran's Introduction, etc. part. i. chap. 5. 

1 It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that 
Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sud- 
den overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole re- 
gion, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that 
the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to stran- 
gers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water. " Pisca 
tores aquae illius tunes ecclesiasticas, quse more patriae arc- 
tae sunt et altae, necnon et rotundae, sub undis manifeste, 
sereno tempore conspiciunt et extraneis transeuntihus, rei- 
que causas admirantibus, frequenter ostendunt." — Topogr 
Hib. Dist. 2. c. 9. 

2 To make this story intelligible in a song, would require 
a much greater number of verses than anyone is authorised 
to inflict upon an audience at once ; the reader must there- 
fore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, ths 
daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transform 
ed into aswan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred 
years, over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the 
coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell 
was to be the signal of her release. — I found this fanciful 
fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, 
which were begun under the direction of that enlightenw! 
friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira. 



322 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Your glass may be purple and mine may be blue, 
But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl. 

The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue 
Deserves not the comforts they shed o'er the soul, 

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side 

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? 
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, 

If he kneel not before the same altar with me ? 
From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly, 

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss ? 
No ! perish the hearts and the laws that try 

Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this ! 



SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. 

Air — The Black Joke. 
Sublime was the warning which Liberty spoke, 
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke 

Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain ! 
Oh, Liberty ! let not this spirit have rest, 
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the 

west — 
Give the light of your look to each son-owing spot, 
Nor, oh ! be the Shamrock of Erin forgot, 

While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain ! 

If the fane of our fathers bequeath' d with their rights, 
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights, 

If deceit be a wound and suspicion a stain — 
Then, ye men of Iberia ! our cause is the same : 
And oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a name, 
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, 
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath 

For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain ! 

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resigned 
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find 

That repose which at home they had sigh'd for in 
vain, 
Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light, 
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright, 
And forgive even Albion, while blushing she draws, 
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause 

Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain ! 

God prosper the cause ! — oh ! it cannot but thrive, 
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive, 

Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain. 
Then how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die ! 
The finger of Glory shall point where they lie, 
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, 
The young Spirit of Freedom shall shelter their 
grave, 

Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain. 



BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING 
YOUNG CHARMS. 

Air — My Lodging is on the cold Ground. 
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, 

Like fairy gifts fading away ! 



Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou 
art, 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
And around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart 

Would entwine itself verdantly still ! 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, 

To which time will but ms.ke thee more dear ! 
Oh ! the heart that has truly loved, never forgets, 

But as truly loves on to the close, 
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, 

The same look which she turn'd when he rose ! 



No. III. 



TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF 
DONEGAL. 

While the Publisher of these Melodies very pro- 
perly inscribes them to the Nobility and Gentry of 
Ireland in general, I have much pleasure in selecting 
one from that number to whom my share of the Work 
is particularly dedicated. Though your Ladyship has 
been so long absent from Ireland, I know that you 
remember it well and warmly — that you have not 
allowed the charm of English society, like the taste 
of the lotus, to produce oblivion of your country, but 
that even the humble tribute which I offer derives its 
chief claim upon your interest from the appeal which 
it makes to your patriotism. Indeed, absence, how 
ever fatal to some affections of the heart, rather 
strengthens our love for the land where we were 
born ; and Ireland is the country, of all others, which 
an exile must remember with enthusiasm. Those few 
darker and less amiable traits, with which bigotry 
and misrule have stained her character, and which 
are too apt to disgust us upon a nearer intercourse, 
become softened at a distance, or altogether invisible ; 
and nothing is remembered but her virtues and her 
misfortunes — the zeal with which she has always 
loved liberty, and the barbarous policy which has 
always withheld it from her — the ease with which 
her generous spirit might be conciliated, and the cruel 
ingenuity which has been exerted to " wring her into 
undutifulness." 1 

It has often been remarked, and oftener felt, that 
our music is the truest of all comments upon our his- 
tory. The tone of defiance, succeeded by the lan- 
guor of despondency — a burst of turbulence dying 
away into softness — the sorrows of one moment lost 
in the levity of the next — and all that romantic mix- 
ture of mirth and sadness, which is naturally pro- 
duced by the efforts of a lively temperament, to shake 
off, or forget, the wrongs which lie upon it : — such 
are the features of our history and character, which 
we find strongly and faithfully reflected in our music , 
and there are many airs which, I think, it is difficult 



1 A phrase which occurs in a letter from the Earl of Deo- 
mond to the Earl of Ormond, in Elizabeth's time.— Sen 
nia Sacra, as quoted by Curry 



IRISH MELODIES. 



323 



io listen to, without recalling some period or event to 
which their expression seems peculiarly applicable. 
Sometimes, when the strain is open and spirited, yet 
shaded here and there by a mournful recollection, we 
can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Mon- 
trose, 1 marching to the aid o r the royal cause, notwith- 
standing all the perfidy of Chiles and his ministers, 
ind remembering just enough a.* past sufferings to 
enhance the generosity of their p-esent sacrifice. 
The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the 
times in which he lived, when our poor countrymen 
were driven to worship their God in caves, or to quit 
for ever the land of- their birth (like the bird that 
abandons the nest which human touch has violated ;) 
and in many a song do we hear the last farewell of 
the exile,' 2 mingling regret for the ties he leaves at 
home, with sanguine expectations of the honours 
that await him abroad — such honours as were won on 
the field of Fontenoy, where the valour of Irish 
Catholics turned the fortune of the day in favour of 
the French, and extorted from George the Second 
that memorable exclamation, " Cursed be the laws 
which deprive me of such subjects !" 

Though much has been said of the antiquity of our 
music, it is certain that our finest and most popular 
airs are modern; and perhaps we may look no fur- 
ther than the last disgraceful century for the origin 
of most of those wild and melancholy strains, which 
were at once the offspring and solace of grief, and 
which were applied to the mind, as music was for- 
merly to the body, "decantare loca dolentia." Mr. 
Pinkerton is of opinion* that none of the Scotch 
popular airs are as old as the middle of the sixteenth 
century; and, though musical antiquaries refer us, 
for some of our melodies, to so early a period as the 
firth century, I am persuaded that there are few, of a 
civilized description (and by this I mean to exclude 
all the savage Ceanans, cries,* etc.) which can claim 
quite so ancient a date as Mr. Pinkerton allows to 
the Scotch. But music is not the only subject upon 
which our taste for antiquity is rather unreasonably 
indulged ; and, however heretical it may be to dis- 
sent from these romantic speculations, I cannot help 



thinking that it is possible to love our country very 
zealously, and to feel deeply interested in her honour 
and happiness, without believing that Irish was the 
language spoken in Paradise :' that our ancestors were 
kind enough to take the trouble of polishing the 
Greeks; 2 or that Abaris, the Hyperborean, was a na 
tive of the North of Ireland. 3 

By some of these archaeologists, it has been ima- 
gined that the Irish were early acquainted with coun- 
ter-point;* and they endeavour to support this con- 
jecture by a well-known passage in Giraldus, where 
he dilates, with such elaborate praise, upon the beau- 
ties of our national minstrelsy. But the terms of this 
eulogy are too vague, too deficient in technical accu- 
racy, to prove that even Giraldus himself knew any 
thing of the artifice of counter-point. There are 
many expressions in the Greek and Latin writers 
which might be cited, with much more plausibility, 
to prove that they understood the arrangement oi 
] music in parts ; s yet I believe it is conceded in gene- 
1 ral by the learned, that, however grand and pathetic 
, the melodies of the ancients may have been, it was 
I reserved for the ingenuity of modern Science to 
: transmit the "light of Song'' through the variegating 
I prism of Harmony^ 

I Indeed the irregular scale of the early Irish (in 
; which, as in the music of Scotland, the interval of 
J the fourth was wanting) 6 must have furnished but 
wild and refractory subjects to the harmonist. It was 
only when the invention of Guido began to be known, 






1 There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantry of 
these Irish auxiliaries in •' Tlie Complete History of the 
Wars in Scotland, under Montrose" (1660.) See particularly, 
for the conduct of an Irishman at the battle of Aberdeen, 
cliap. 6. p. 49; and, for a tribute to the bravery of Colonel 
O'Kyan. chap. 7. p. 55. Clarendon owns that the Marquis 
of Montrose was indebted (or much of his miraculous suc- 
cess to this small bind ofliish heroes under Macdonnell. 

2 The >ftbe Hindu Music, though more ob- 
vious and defined, were far less touching and characteristic. 
They divided their Bongs Recording to the seasons of the 
year, hy which (says Sir William Jones) " they were able 
to recal the memory of autumnal merriment, at the close of 
the harvest, or of separation nnd melancholy during the cold 
months," etc Asiatic Transactions, vol. 3, on the Musi- 
cal Modes of the Hindus. What the Abbe du Bos says of 
the symphonies of Lullv, may be asserted, with much more 
probability, of our bold and impassioned airs: — " Elles au- 
roient prodtiit de ces eties. qui nous paroissent fabuleux 
dans le rt-cit des anciens, si on les avoit fait entendre a des 

- :*;in natural nussi vif que les Atheniens." — Reflex, 
tur la Peinture, etc. torn. ]. >. 

3 Dissert lion, prefixed to the second volume of his Scot- 
tish Ballads. 

4 (V which sniti* 1 genuine specimens may be found at the 
end of Mr. Walker's work upon the Irish Bards. Mr. Bun- 
ting has disfigured his last splendid volume by too many of 
these barbarous rhapsodies. 



1 See Advertisement to the Transactions of the G_..v; 
Society of Dublin. 

2 O'Halloran, vol. 1. part 1. chap. 6. 

3 Id. ib. chap. 7. 

4 It is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they 
understood the diesis, or enharmonic interval. — The Greeks 
seem to have formed their ears to this delicate gradation of 
sound: and, whatever difficulties or objections may le in 
toe way of its practical use, we must agree with Mersenne 
(.Preludes de i'Harmonie, quest. 7,) that the theory of music 
would be imperfect without it; and, even in p-actice (as 
Tosi, among others, very justly remarks, Observations on 
Florid Song, chap. 1. sec. 16,) there is no good performer 
on the viohn who does not make a sensible dirlorence be 
tween D sharp and E flat, though, from the imperfection 
of the instrument, they are the same notes upon the piano 
forte. The effect of modulation by enharmonic transitions 
is also very striking and beautiful. 

5 The words sr -ixtXKtx and sriposxvix, in a passage of 
Plato, and some expressions of Cicero, in Fragment lib. ii 
de Republ. induced the Abbe Fragnier to maintain that the 
ancients had a knowledge of counter-point. M. Burette, 
however, has answered him, I think, satisfactorily. — (Exa- 
men d' un passage de Platon, in the 3d vol. of Histoire de 
l'Acnd.) M. Huet is of opinion 'Pensees Diverses) that 
wh it Cicero says of the music of the spheres, in his dream 
ofScipio, is sufficient to prove an acquaintance with har- 
mony : but one of the strongest passages which I recollect 
in favour of the supposition, occurs in the Treatise, attributed 
to Aristotle, n-p( loo-,u;u — Msuo-ixj] Ss c»ii; Kj u» xxi p»- 
f-=U", x. t. X. 

6 Another lawless peculiarity of our music is the frequency 
of what composers call consecutive fifths; but this is an 
irregularity which can hardly be avoided by persons not 
very conversant with the rules of composition ; indeed, if I. 
may venture to cite my own wild attempts in this way, it is 
a fault which I find myself continually committing, and 
which has sometimes appeared so pleasing to mv ear, that 
I have surrendered it to the critic with considerable reluc- 
tance. May there not be a little pedantry in adhering too 
rigidly to this rule? — I have been told that there are instan- 
ces in Haydn of an undisguised succession of fifths ; and 
Mr. Shield, in his Introduction to Harmony, seems to inti- 
mate that Handel has been sometimes guilty of the sam« 
irregularity. 



MOORE'S WORKS 



and the powers of the harp 1 were enlarged by addi- 
tional strings, that our melodies took the sweet cha- 
racter which interests us at present ; and, while the 
Scotch persevered in the old mutilation of the scale,' 2 
our music became gradually more amenable to the 
laws of harmony and counter-point. 

In profiting, however, by the improvements of the 
moderns, our style still kept its originality sacred from 
their refinements ; and, though Carolan had frequent 
opportunities of hearing the works of Geminiani, and 
other masters, we but rarely find him sacrificing his 
native simplicity to the ambition of their ornaments, 
or affectation of their science. In that curious com- 
position, indeed, called his Concerto, it is evident that 
he laboured to imitate Corelli ; and this union of man- 
ners, so very dissimilar, produces the same kind of 
uneasy sensation which is felt at a mixture of different 
stvles of architecture. In general, however, the artless 
flow of our music has preserved itself free from all 
tinge of foreign innovation, 3 and the chief corruptions, 
of which we have to complain, arise from the unskil- 
ful performance of our own itinerant musicians, from 
whom, too frequently, the airs are noted down, en- 
cumbered by their tasteless decorations, and respon- 
sible for all their ignorant anomalies. Though it be 
sometimes impossible to trace the original strain, yet, 
in most of them, " auri per ramos aura refulget," 4 the 
pure gold of the melody shines through the ungrace- 
ful foliage which surrounds it ; and the most delicate 
and difficult duty of a compiler is to endeavour, as 
much a possible, by retrenching these inelegant super- 
fluities, and collating the various methods of playing 



1 A singular oversight occurs in an Essay upon the Irish 
Harp, bv Mr. Beauford, which is inserted in the Appendix 
to Walker's Historical Memoirs.—" The Irish (says he,) 
according to Bromton, in the reign of Henry H. had ttrto 
kinds of harps, ' Hibernici tamen in duobus musici generis 
instrumentis, quamvis pracipitem et velocem, suavem tamen 
et jucundam,' the one greatly bold and quick, the other soft 
and pleasing." — How a man of Mr. Beauford's learning 
could so mistake the meaning, and mutilate the grammatical 
construction of this extract, is unaccountable. The follow- 
ing is the passage as I find it entire in Brompton, and it re- 
quires but little Latin to perceive the injustice which has 
been done to the words of the old chronicler: — " Et cum 
Scotia, hujus terrse filia, utatur lyra, tympano et choro, ac 
Wallia CJtbara, tubis et choro Hibernici tamen in duobus 
musici generis instrumentis, quamvis prcecipitem et velo- 
cem, suavem tamen et jucundam, crispatis modulis et intri- 
catis notulis, efficiunt harmoniam. ,, — Hist. Anglic. Script, 
pas. 1075. I should not have thought this error worth re- 
marking, but that the compiler of the Dissertation on the 
Harp, prefixed to Mr. Bunting's last Work, has adopted it 
implicitly. 

2 TheScotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but there 
are strong traits of difference between their melodies and 
ours. They had formerly the same passion for robbing us 
of our Saints, and the learned Dempster was, for this offence, 
called " The Saint Stealer." I suppose it was an Irishman, 
who, by way of reprisal, stole Dempster's beautiful wife 
from him at Pisa. — See this anecdote in the Pinacotkeca of 
Erv thrams, part i. page 25. 

3 Among other "false refinements of the art, our music 
(with the exception perhaps of the air called "Mamma, 
Mamma," and one or two more of the same ludicrous de- 
scription,) has avoided that puerile mimickry of natural 
noises, motions, etc. which disgraces so often the works of 
even the great Handel himself. D'Alembert ought to have 
had better taste than to become the patron of this imitative 
affectation.— Discours. Preliminaire de V Encyclopedic. 
The reader may find some good remarks on the subject in 
Avison upon Musical Expression; a work which, though 
under the name of Avison, was written, it is said, by Dr. 
Urown. 

4 Virgil, .Eneid, lib. 6. v. 204. 



or singing each air, to restore the regularity of its 
form, and the chaste simplicity of its character. 

'. must again observe, that, in doubting the ami 
quity of our music, my scepticism extends but to those 
polished specimens of the art, which it is difficult to 
conceive anterior to the dawn of modern improve- 
ment ; and that I would by no means invalidate the 
claims of Ireland to as early a rank in the annals of 
minstrelsy as the most zealous antiquary may be in- 
clined to allow her. In addition, indeed, to the power 
which music must always have possessed over the 
minds of a people so ardent and susceptible, the sti- 
mulus of persecution was rot wanting to quicken out 
taste into enthusiasm ; the charms of song were en- 
nobled with the glories of martyrdom, and the acts 
against minstrels, in the reigns of Henry VIII. and 
Elizabeth, were as successful, I doubt not, in making 
my countrymen musicians, as the penal laws have 
been in keeping them Catholics. 

With respect to the verses which I have written 
for these Melodies, as they are intended rather to be 
sung than read, I can answer for their sound with 
somewhat more confidence than their sense ; yet, it 
would be affectation to deny that I have given much 
attention to the task, and that it is not through want 
of zeal or industry, if I unfortunately disgrace the 
sweet airs of my country, by poetry altogether un- 
worthy of their taste, their energy, and their ten 
derness. 

Though the humble nature of my contributions to 
this work may exempt them from the rigours of lite- 
rary criticisms, it was not to be expected that those 
touches of political feeling, those tones of national 
complaint, in which the poetry sometimes sympa- 
thizes with the music, would be suffered to pass with- 
out censure or alarm. It has been accordingly said, 
that the tendency of this publication is mischievous, 1 
and that I have chosen these airs but as a vehicle of 
dangerous politics — as fair and precious vessels (to 
borrow an image of St. Augustin 2 ) from which the 
wine of error might be administered. To those who 
identify nationality with treason, and who see, in 
every effort for Ireland, a system of hostility towards 
England, — to those too, who, nursed in the gloom ol 
prejudice, are alarmed by the faintest gleam of libe- 
rality that threatens to disturb their darkness (like that 
Demophon of old, who, when the sun shone upon 
him, shivered! 3 ) — to such men I shall not deign to 
apologize for the warmth of any political sentiment 
which may occur in the course of these pages. But, 
as there are many, among the more wise and tole- 
rant, who, with feeling enough to mourn over the' 
wrongs of their country, and sense enough to per- 
ceive all the danger of not redressing them, may yet 
think that allusions in the least degree bold or inflam- 
matory should be avoided in a publication of this 
popular description — I beg of these respected per 



1 See Letters, under the signatures of Timaeus, etc. in the 
Morning Post, Pilot, and other papers. 

2 " Non accuso verba, quasi vasa electa atque pretiosa; 
sed vinum erroris, quod cum eis nobis propinatur." — Lib. u 
Confess, cap. lb. 

3 This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (tj>*. 
jr^ojj-oioj) to Alexander the Great. — Scxt. Empir. Pyrra 
Hypotk. lib. i. 



IRISH MELODIES. 



32t> 



sons to believe, that there is no one who deprecates 
more sincerely than I do any appeal to the passions 
of an ignorant and angry multitude ; but, that it is 
not through that gross and inflammable region of 
eociety a work of this nature could ever have been 
intended to circulate. It looks much higher for its 
audience and readers — it is found upon the piano- 
fortes of the rich and the educated — of those who 
can afford to have^heir national zeal a little stimula- 
ted, without exciting much dread of the excesses into 
which it may hurry them ; and of many, whose 
nerves may be, now and then, alarmed with advan- 
tage, as much more is to be gained by their fears, 
than could ever be expected from their justice. 

Having thus adverted to the principal objection 
which has been hitherto made to the poetical part of 
this work, allow me to add a few words in defence 
of my ingenious coadjutor, Sir John Stevenson, who 
has been accused of having spoiled the simplicity of 
the airs, by the chromatic richness of his symphonies, 
and the elaborate variety of his harmonies. We might 
cite the example o c the admirable Haydn, who has 
sported through all the mazes of musical science, in 
his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies ; 
but it appears to me, that Sir John Stevenson has 
brought a national feeling to this task, which it would 
be in vain to expect from a foreigner, however taste- 
ful or judicious. Through many of his own compo- 
sitions v\e trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which 
points him out as peculiarly suited to catch the spirit 
of his country's music ; and, far from agreeing with 
those critics who think that his symphonies have no- 
thing kindred with the airs which they introduce, I 
would say that, in general, they resemble those illu- 
minated initials of old manuscripts, which are of the 
lame character with the writing which follows, 
•hough more highly coloured 1 and more curiously 
arnamented. 

In those airs which are arranged for voices, his 
skill has particularly distinguished itself; and, though 
H cannot be denied that a single melody most natu- 
rally expresses the language of feeling and passion, 
yet, often, when a favourite strain has been dismissed, 
as having lost its charm of novelty for the ear, it re- 
turns, in a harmonized shape, with new claims upon 
our interest and attention ; and to those who study 
he delicate artifices of composition, the construction 
)f the inner parts of these pieces must afford. I think, 
•.onsiderable satisfaction Every voice has an air to 
tself, a flowing succession of notes, which might be 
aeard with pleasure, independent of the rest, so art- 
iully has the harmonist (if I may thus express it) ga- 
velled the melody, distributing an equal portion of its 
sweetness to every part. 

If your Ladyship s iove of Music were not known 
to me, I should not have hazarded so long a letter 
upon the subject ; but as, probably, I may have pre- 
sumed *oo far upon your partiality, the best revenge 
you can take is to write me just as long a letter upon 
Painting; and I promise to attend to your theory of 
the art, with a pleasure only surpassed by that which 
I have so often derived from your practice of it. — 



1 The word "chromatic" might have been used here, 
viiho'ut any violence to its meaning. 



May the mind which such talents adorn, continue 
calm as it is bright, and happy as it is virtuous ! 
Believe me, your Ladyship's 

Grateful Friend and Servant, 

THOMAS MOORE 
Dublin, January, 1810. 



ERIN! OH ERIN! 

Air — Thamama Halla. 
Like the bright lamp that shone in Kildare's holy 
fane, 1 
And burn'd through long ages of darkness and 
storm, 
Is the heart that afflictions have come o'er in vain, 
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm ! 
Erin ! oh Erin ! thus bright, through the tears 
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears ! 

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, 

Thy sun is but rising, when others are set ; 
And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath 
hung, 
.The full moon of freedom shall beam round thee 
yet. 
Erin ! oh Erin ! though long in the shade, 
Thy star will shine out, when the proudest shall fade 

Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, 
The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour, 

Till spring, with a touch, her dark slumber unbind, 
And day-light and liberty bless the young flower. 2 

Erin ! oh Erin ! thy winter is past, 

And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at 
last. 



DRINK TO HER. 

Air — Heigh oh ! my Jackey, 
Drink to her, who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh ; 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy. 
Oh ! woman's heart was made 

For minstrel hands alone ; 
By other fingers play'd, 

It yields not half the tone. 
Then here 's to her, who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy ! 

At Beauty's door of glass 

When Wealth and Wit once stood, 
They ask'd her "which might pass ?" 

She answer' d, " he who could." 



1 The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kiklare, 
which Giraldus mentions, " Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignia 
Sanctre Brigidse, quern inextinguibilem vocant; non nuod 
extingui non possit,sed quod tam solicite moniales ot sancta? 
mulieres ignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutriunt, ut a 
tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit 
inextinctus." — Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Hibern. Dis. 2. 
c. 34. 

2 Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, has ap- 
plied this image to a still more important subject 



H2G 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



With golden key Wealth thought 

To pass — but 't would not do : 
While Wit a diamond brought, 

Which cut his bright way through ! 
So here 's to her, who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy ! 

The love that seeks a home, 

Where wealth or grandeur shines, 
Is like the gloomy gnome 

That dwells in dark gold mines. 
But oh ! the poet's love 

Can boast a brighter sphere ; 
It's native home 's above, 

Though woman keeps it here ! 
Then drink to her, who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy ! 



OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD. 1 
Air— Kitty Tyrrel. 
Oh ! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, 

Where Pleasure lies carelessly smiling at Fame; 
He was born for much more, and in happier hours 

His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. 
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, 

Mi ght have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dan, 2 
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, 

Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart. 

But alas ! for his country — her pride is gone by, 

And that spirit is broken which never would bend ; 
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, 

For 't is treason to love her, and death to defend. 
Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray ; 
Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their 
sires ; 
And the torch, that would light them through dignity's 
way, 
Must be caught from the pile where their country 
expires ! 

Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream, 
He should try to forget what he never can heal ; 

Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam 

Through the gloom of his country, and mark how 
he'll feel ! 

That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down 
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it aaorea, 



1 We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by 
one of those wandering bards, whom Spencer so severely, and, 
perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose 
poems, he tells us, " were sprinkled with some pretty flowers 
of their natural device, which gave good grace and" comeli- 
ness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to 
the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, 
would serve to adorn and beautify virtue." 

2 It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland 
is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which 
weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation 
; « certainly more creditable to us than the following : "So 
that Ireland (called the land of Ire, for the constant bcpils 
therein for 400 years) was now become the land of concord." 

Moyd's State Worthies, Art. The Lord Grandison. 



While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, 
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover hii 
sword. 1 

But, though glory be gone, and though hope fade away 

Thy name, loved Erin! shall live in his songs ; 
Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay 

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy 
wrongs ! 
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; 

The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, 
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, 

Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep 



WHILE GAZING ON TPIE MOON'S LIGHT 

Air — Oonagh. 
While gazing on the moon's light, 

A moment from her smile I turn'd, 
To look at orbs that, more bright, 
In lone and distant glory burn'd. 
But, too far, 
Each proud star, 
For me to feel its warming flame — 
Much more dear 
That mild sphere, 
Which near our planet smiling came ; 2 
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own — 

While brighter eyes unheeded play, 
I'll love those moon-light looks alone, 

Which bless my home and guide my way ! 

The day had sunk in dim showers, 

But midnight now, with lustre meek, 
Illumined all the pale flowers, 

Like hope, that lights a mourner's cheek 
I said (while 
The moon's smile 
Play'd o'er a stream in dimpling bliss,) 
"The moon looks 
On many brooks 
The brook can see no moon but this ;" 3 
And thus, I thought, our fortunes run, 

For many a lover looks to thee, 
While oh ! I feel there is but one, 
One Mary in the world for me. 



ILL OMENS. 

Air — Kitty of Coleraine ; or, Paddy's Resource 

When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, 

And stars in the heavens still lingering shone, 



1 See the Hymn, attributed to Alcceus, Ev y.vp-ro* kXxS'i 
£»£<>; <f>op>j(ra> — "I will carry my sword, hidden in 

myrtles, like Harmodius and Aiistogiton," etc. 

2 " Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, 
the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most 
of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put to- 
gether." — JYhistoii's Theory, etc. 

In the F.ntretiens d'Jiriste, among other ingenious em- 
blems, we find a starry sky without a moon, with the words, 
JV<y?j mille, quod absens. 

3 This image was suggested bv the following thought, 
which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works 
" The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the nigijl-'flowe. 
sees but one moon." 



IRISH MELODIES. 



327 



Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, 
The last time she e'er was to press it alone. 

For the youth, whom she treasured her heart and her 
soul in, 
Had promised to link the last tie before noon ; 

And, when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, 
The maiden herself will steal after it soon! 

As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er 
misses, 

Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, 
A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses, 

Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. 
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces, 

She brush'd him — he fell, alas ! never to rise — 
" Ah ! such," said the girl, " is the pride of our faces, 

For which the soul's innocence too often dies!" 

While she stole through the garden, where heart' s- 
ease was growing, 
She cull'd some, and kiss'doff its night-fallen dew ; 
And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glow- 
ing* 
That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too; 
But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, 

Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost — 
44 Ah ! this means," said the girl (and she sigh'd at its 
meaning,) 
That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost !" 



BEFORE THE BATTLE. 

Air — The Fairy Queen. 
By the hope within us springing, 

Herald of to-morrow's strife ; 
By that sun whose light is bringing 

Chains or freedom, death or life — 
Oh ! remember life can be 
No charm for him who lives not free ! 

'Like the day-star in the wave, 

Sinks a hero to his grave, 
'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears ! 

Happy is he o'er whose decline 

The smiles of home may soothing shine, 
And light him down the steep of years : — 

But oh ! how grand they sink to rest 

Who close their eyes on Victory's breast ! 

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers 
Now the foernan's cheek turns white, 

When his heart that field remembers, 
Where we dimm'd his glory's light ! 

Never let him bind again 

A chain like that we broke from then. 
•Hark ! the horn of combat calls — 
Ere the golden evening falls, 

May we pledge that horn in triumph round I 1 
Many a heart, that now beats high, 
In slumber cold at night shall lie, 

Nor waken even at victory's sound : — 



1 "Tlie Irish Cnrna was not entirely devoted to martial 
purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed Meadli 
out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this 
day."— Walker. 



But oh ! how bless'd that hero's sleep, 
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 

Air — Thy Fair Bosom. 
Night closed around the conqueror's way 

And lightnings show'd the distant hill, 
Where those who lost that dreadful day 

Stood, few and faint, but fearless still ! 
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, 

For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'd — 
Oh ! who shall say what heroes feel, 

When all but life and honour 's lost ! 

The last sad hour of freedom's dream, 

And valour's task, moved slowly by, 
W*Mle mute they watch'd, till morning's beam 

Should rise, and give them light to die '— 
There is a world where souls are free, 

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; 
If death that world's bright opening be, 

Oh ! w T ho would live a slave in this ? 



OH ! 'T IS SWEET TO THINK. 

Air — Thady, you Gander. 
Oh ! 't is sweet to think that, wherever we rove, ; 

We are sure to find something blissful and dear : 
And that, when we're far from the lips we love, 

We have but to make love to the lips we are near ! 
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling, 

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, 
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing 

It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. 
Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove, 

To be doom'd to find something, still, that is deai 
And to know, when far from the lips we love, 

We have but to make love to the lips we are near 

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, 

To make light of the rest, if the rose is not there ; 
And the world 's so rich in resplendent eyes, 

'T were a pity to limit one's love to a pair. 
Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, 

They are both of them bright, but they're change- 
able too, 
And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, 

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue ! 
Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove, 

To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear 
And to know, when far from the lips we love, 

We have but to make love to the lips we are neai 



1 I believe it is Marmontel, who says " Quand on n' a 
pas ce que Von aime, il faut aimer ce que Von a." — There 
are so many matter-of fact people, who take such jeux 
(Vesprit as this defence of inconstancy, to be the actual and 
genuine sentiments of him who writes them, that they com 
pel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as them 
selves, and to remind them, that Democritus was not (he 
worse physiologist for having playfully contended that snow 
was black ; nor Erasmus in any degree the less wise ioi 
having written an ingenious encomium of lollv. 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Air 

Through grief and through danger thy smile hath 

cheer'd my way, 
Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round 

me lay ; 
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love 

burn'd, 
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd : 
Oh ! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, 
And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more 

dear to thee. 

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd 

and scorn'd ; 
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows 

adorn'd ; 
She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'# hid in 

caves ; 
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas ! were 

slaves ; 
Yet, cold in the earth, at thy feet I would rather be, 
Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought 

from thee. 

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are 

frail— 
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd 

less pale ! 
rfThey say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering 

chains, 
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile 

stains — 
Oh ! do not believe them — no chain could that soul 

subdue — 
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too I 1 



Why should feeling ever speak, 

When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? 
Friendship's balmy words may feign, 

Love's are even more false than they ; 
Oh ! 't is only Music's strain 

Can sweetly sooth, and not betray ! 



ON MUSIC. 
Air — Banks of Banna. 
When through life unbless'd we rove, 

Losing all that made life dear, 
Should some notes, we used to love 

In days of boyhood, meet our ear, 
Oh how welcome breathes the strain ! 

Wakening thoughts that long have slept ; 
Kindling former smiles again, 

In faded eyes that long have wept ! 

Like the gale that sighs along 

.Beds of oriental flowers, 
Is the grateful breath of song, 

That once was heard in happier hours. 
Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on, 

Though the flowers have sunk in death ; 
So, when pleasure's dream is gone, 

Its memory lives in Music's breath ! 



IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT 
SHED. 1 

Air — The Sixpence. 
It is not the tear at this moment shed, 

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, 
That can tell how beloved was the friend that 's fled, 

Or how deep in our hearts Ave deplore him 
'T is the tear through many a long day wept, 

Through a life by his loss all shaded ; 
T is the sad remembrance, fondly kept, 

When all lighter griefs have faded ! 

Oh ! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, 

While it shines through our heart, will improve 
them; 
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, 

When we think. how he lived but to love them ! 
And, as buried saints have given perfume 

To shrines where they've been lying, 
So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom 

From the image he left there in dying ! 



Mus 



• oh ! how faint, how weak, 



Language fades before thy spell ! 



1 " Where the Soirit of the Lord is, there is liberty. 
St. Paul, 2 Corinthians, iii. 17. 



THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP 

Air — Gage Fane. 

'T is believed that this harp, which I wake now for 

thee, 

Was a Siren of old, who sung under the se& , 
And who often, at eve, through the bright billow 

roved, 
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved 

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, 
And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to steep, 
Till Heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm, 
And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form . 

Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheek smiled the 

same — 
While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round the 

frame ; 
And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright 

rings, 
Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings ! 2 

Hence it came, that this soft harp so long hath been 

known 
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone ; 
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay 
To be love when I'm near thee, and grief when away' 



1 These lines were occasioned by the death of a very 
near and deal relative. 

2 This thought was suggested by an ingenious design, 
prefixed to an ode upon St. Cecilia, published some years 
since, by Mr. Hudson of Dublin. 



c 



IRISH MELODIES 



329 



NO. IV. 



This Number of The Melodies ought to have ap- 
peared much earlier ; and the writer of the words is 
ashamed to confess, that the delayvof its publication 
must be imputed chiefly, if not entirety, to him. He 
finds it necessary to make this avowal, not only for 
the purpose of removing all blame from the publisher, 
but in consequence of a rumour, which has been cir- 
culated industriously in Dublin, that the Irish Govern- 
ment had interfered to prevent the continuance of 
the Work. This would be, indeed, a revival of 
Henry the Eighth's enactments against Minstrels, and 
it is very flattering to find that so much importance is 
at'.ached to our compilation, even by such persons as 
the inventors of the report. Bishop Lowth, it is true, 
was of this opinion, that one song, like the Hymn to 
Harmodius, would have done more towards rousing 
the spirit of the Romans than all the philippics of 
Cicero. But we live in wiser and less musical times ; 
ballads have long lost their revolutionary powers, 
and we question if even a " Lillibullero" would pro- 
duce any very serious consequences at present. It is 
needless, therefore, to add, that there is no truth in 
the report ; and we trust that whatever belief it ob- 
tained was founded more upon the character of the 
Government than of the Work. 

The Airs of the last Number, though full of origi- 
nality and beauty, were perhaps, in general, too cu- 
riously selected to become all at once as popular as, 
we think, they deserve to be. The Public are re- 
markably reserved towards new acquaintances in 
music, which, perhaps, is one of the reasons why 
many modern composers introduce none but old 
friends to their notice. Indeed, it is natural that per- 
sons who love music only by association, should be 
slow in feeling the charms of a new and strange 
melody ; while those who have a quick sensibility for 
this enchanting art, will as naturally seek and enjoy 
novelty, because in every variety of strain they find a 
fresh combination of ideas, and the sound has scarcely 
reached the ear, before the heart has rapidly trans- 
lated it into sentiment. After all, however, it can- 
not be denied that the most popular of our national 
Airs are also the most beautiful ; and it has been our 
wish, in the present Number, to select from those 
Melodies only which have long been listened to and 
admired. The least known in the collection is the 
Air of " Love's young Dream ;" but it is one of those 
easy, artless strangers, whose merit the heart ac- 
knowledges instantly. 

T. M. 

Buj-y Street, St. James's, 
Nov. 1811. 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 
Air— The Old Woman. 
Oh ! the days are gone, when Beauty bright 

My heart's chain wove ! 
When my dream of life, from morn till night, 
Was love, still love ! 
2 T 



New hope may bloom, 

And days may come 
Of milder, calmer beam, 
But there 's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream ! 
Oh ! there 's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream ! 

Though the bard to purer fame may soar, 

When wild youth 's past ; 
Though he win the wise, w r ho frown'd before, 

To smile at last ; 

He'll never meet 

A joy so sweet,'. 
In all his noon of fame, 
As when first he sung to woman's ear 

His soul-felt flame, 
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear 

The one loved name ! 

Oh ! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, 

Which first-love traced ; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 

On memory's waste ! 

'T was odour fled 

As soon as shed ; 
'T w r as morning's winged dream ; 
'T was a light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream ! 
Oh ! 't was light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream. 



THE PRINCE'S DAY. 1 

Air — St. Patrick's Day. 

Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we 'II forget 
them, 
And smile through our tears, like a sun-beam M 
showers ; 
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, 
More form'd to be grateful and bless'd than ours! 
But, just when the chain 
Has ceased to pain, 
And Hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, 
There comes a new link 
Our spirits to sink — 
Oh ! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, 

Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay , 

But, though 't were the last little spark in our souls, 

We must fight it up now on our Prince's Day. 

Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal ! 
Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are 
true; 
And the tribute most high to a head that is roy* I 
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too. 
While cowards who blight 
Your fame, your right, 
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, 
The Standard of Green 
In front would be seen — 



1 This song was written for a fete in honour of the Prince 
of Wales's Birth-Day, given by my friend, Major Bivan, at 
his seat in the county of Kilkenny. 



330 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Oh ! my life on your faith ! were you summon'd this 
minute, 

You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, 
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it, 

When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day. 

He loves the Green Isle, and his lcve is recorded 

In hearts which have suifer'd too much to forget ; 
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded, 
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet! 
The gem may be broke 
By many a stroke, 
But nothing can cloud its native ray ; 
Each fragment will cast 
A light, to the last ! — 
And thus, Erin, my country ! though broken thou art, 
There 'a a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay; 
A spirit which beams through each suffering part, 
And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's Day ! 



WEEP ON, WEEP ON. 

Air — The Song of Sorrow. 
Weep on, weep on, your hcur is past, 

Your dreams of pride are o'er ; 
The fatal chain is round you cast, 

And you are men no more 1 
In vain the hero's heart har.h bled, 

The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain ; — 
On, Freedom ! once thy flame hath fled, 

It never lights again ! 

Weep on — perhaps in after days 

They'll learn to love your name ; 
When many a deed shall wake in praise 

That now must sleep in blame ! 
And, when they tread the ruin'd isle, 

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, 
They'll wond'ring ask, how hands so vde 

Could conquer hearts so brave. 

M 'T was fate," they'll say, " a wayward fate 

Your web of discord wove ; 
And, while your tyrants join'd in hate, 

You never join'd in love! 
But hearts fell off that ought to twine, 

And man profaned what God hath given, 
Till some were heard to curse the shrine 

Where others knelt to Heaven!" 



LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. 

Air — Nora Creina. 

Lesbia hath a beaming eye, 

But no one knows for whom it beameth ; 
Right and left its arrows fly, 

But what they aim at no one dreameth ! 
Sweeter 't is to gaze upon 

My Nora's lid, that seldom rises ; 
Few its looks, but every one, 

Like unexpected light, surprises ! 
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear ! 

Mv gentle, bashful Nora Creina ! 



Beauty lies 
In many eyes, 
But love in yours, my Nora Creina ! 

Lesbia wears a robe of gold, 

But all so close the nymph hath laced it. 
Not a charrmof Beauty's mould 

Presumes to stay where Nature placed it! 
Oh ! my Nora's gown for me, 

That floats as wild as mountain breezes, 
Leaving every beauty free 

To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases 

Yes, my Nora Creina, dear ! 
My simple, graceful Nora Creina ! 
Nature's dress 
Is loveliness — 
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina ! 

Lesbia hath a wit refined, 

But, when its points are gleaming round us, 
Who can teil if they're design'd 

To dazzle merely or to wound us ? 
PDlow'd on my Nora's heart, 

In safer slumber Love reposes — 

Bed of peace ! whose roughest part 

Is but the crumbling of the roses. 

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear ! 
My mild, my artless Nora Creina ! 
Wit, though bright, 
Hath not the light 
That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina ! 



I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRLME 

Air — Domhnall. 
I saw thy form in youthful prime, 

Nor thought that pale decay 
Would steal before the steps of time, 

And waste its bloom away, Mary ! 
Yet still thy features wore that light 

Which fleets not with the breath ; 
And life ne'er look'd more truly bright 

Than in thy smile of death, Mary ! 

As streams that run o'er golden mines, 

Yet humbly, calmly glide, 
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines 

Within their gentle tide, Mary ! 
So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise, 

Thy radiant genius shone, 
And that which charm'd all other eyes 

Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary ! 

If souls could always dwell above, 

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; 
Or, could we keep the souls we love, 

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! 
Though many a gifted mind we meet, 

Though fairest forms we see, 
To live with them is far less sweet 

Than to remember thee, Mary !' 



1 I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exqui 
site inscription of Shenstone's, " Heu ! quanto minus esl 
cum reliquis versari quam tui mcminisse '" 



J 



IRISH MELODIES. 



33 



BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE. 

Air — The Brown Irish Girl 
By that lake, whose gloomy shore 
Sky-lark never warbles o'er, 2 
Where the cliff hangs high and steep, 
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. 
" Here at least," he calmly said, 
" Woman ne'er shall find my bed." 
Ah ! the good saint little knew 
What that wily sex can do. 

'T was from Kathleen's eyes he flew — 
Eyes of most unholy blue ! 
She had loved him well and long, 
Wish'd him her's, nor thought it wrong 
Wheresoe'er the saint would fly, 
Still he heard her light foot nigh ; 
East or west, where'er he turn'd, 
Still her eyes before him burn'd. 

On the bold cliff's bosom cast, 
Tranquil now he sleeps at last ; 
Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er 
Woman's smile can haunt him there. 
But nor earth, nor heaven is free 
From her power, if fond she be : 
Even now, while calm he sleeps, 
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. 

Fearless she had track'd his feet 
To this rocky wild retreat ; 
And when morning met his view, 
Her mild glances met it too. 
Ah ! your saints have cruel hearts! 
Sternly from his bed he starts, 
And, with rude repulsive shock, 
Hurls her from the beetling rock. 

Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave 
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave , 
Soon the saint (yet, ah ! too late) 
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. 
When he said, " Heaven rest her soul 1" 
Round the lake light music stole ; 
And her ghost was seen to glide, 
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide ! 



SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 

Air — Open the Door. 
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps 

And lovers are round her sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying ! 

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 
Every note which he loved awaking. — 

All ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking! 



He had lived for his love for his country he died 
They were all that to life had entwined him, — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will Ms love stay behind him. 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest, 
When they promise a glorious morrow ; 

They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the We 
From her own loved Island of Sorrow ! 



1 Tin- ballad is Pounded upon one of tin' many stories re- 
lated of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to l>e seen at 
Glendalisugh, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county 
of Wicklow. 

•2 Tin mo are many other curious tradition; concerning this 
l»ke, which may be found in Giraldus, Cuiga*'., etc. 



NAY TELL ME NOT. 

Air — Dennis, don't be threatening. 
Nay, tell me not, dear ! that the goblet drowns 

One charm of feeling, one fond regret ; 
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns 
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. 
Ne'er hath a beam 
Been lost in the stream 
That ever was shed from thy forro or soul ; 
The balm of thy sighs, 
The light of thine eyes, 
Still float on the surface and hallow my bowl ! 
Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal 
One blissful dream of the heart from me ! 
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, 
The bowl but brightens my love for thee ! 

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower 

Had two blush-roses, of birth divine 5 
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, 
But bathed the other with mantling wine. 
Soon did the buds, 
That drank of the floods 
Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade ; 
While those which the tide 
Of ruby had dyed 
All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! 
Then fancy not, dearest I that wine can steal 
( One blissful dream of the heart from me j 
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, 
The bowl but brightens my love for thee. 



AVENGING AND BRIGHT 
Air — Crooghan a Venee. 
Avenging and bright fell the swift sword of Erin 
On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd ! — 



1 The words of this song were suggested by the very 
ancient Irish story, called " Deirdri, or the Jamentable fat« 
of the sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally 
from the Gaelic, by Mr. OTianagan (see vof. I. of Trans- 
actions of the Gaelic Sucicty of Dublin,) and upon which 
it appears that the " Darthula"' of Macpherson is founded- 
The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death 
the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war 
against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Email. 
"This story (says Mr. O'Flanagan) has been from time im- 
memorial held in high repute as one of the three tragic 
stories of the Irish. These are, 'The death of the children 
of Touran;' 'The death of the children of Lear' (bolh re- 
garding Tualha de Danans;) and this, 'The death of tho 
children of Usnach, 1 which is a Milesian story." In No. 
II. of these Melodies there is a ballad upon the story of the 
children of Lear or Lir: "Silent, oh Movie!" etc. 

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to 
antiquity, which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for 
the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach 



For every fond eye hath waken'd a tear in, 
A drop from nis hearMvounds shall weep o'er her 
blade. 

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwel- 
ling, 1 
When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in 
gore — 2 
By the billows of war which, so often, high swelling, 
Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore ! — 

We swear to revenge them ! — no joy shall be tasted, 
The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed ; 

Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted, 
Till vengeance is wreak' d on the murderer's head 

Yes, monarch ! though sweet are our home recollec- 
tions, 

Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness 
fall; 

Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our af- 
fections, 
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all ! 



WHAT TH£ BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. 

Air — The Yellow Horse. 
tHe. — What the bee is to the floweret, 
When he looks for honey-dew 
Through the leaves that close embower it, 
That, my love, I'll be to you ! 

She. — WTiat the bank, with verdure glowing, 
Is to waves that wander near, 
Whispering kisses, while they're going, 
That I'll be to you, my dear ! 

She. — But they say, the bee 's a rover, 

That he'll fly when sw r eets are gone ; 
And, when once the kiss is over, 
Faithless brooks will wander on ! 



He.- 



-Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, 
If sunny banks will wear away, 

'Tis but right that bees and brooks 
Should sip and kiss them, while they may. 



LOVE AND THE NOVICE. 

Air — Cean Dubh Delish. 
"Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, 

Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend ; 
Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers 
To Heaven in mingled odour ascend ! 
Do not disturb our calm, oh Love ! 
So like is thy form to the cherubs above, 
It well might deceive such hearts as ours." 

Upon our nationality if the Gaelic researches of this gentle- 
man did nit; meet with all the liberal encouragement which 
they merit. 

1 " Oh Naisi ! view the cloud that I here see in the sky ! I 
Bee over Email green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red." 
— Dcirdri's Song. 
2 Ulster. 



Love stood near the Novice and listen' d, 

And Love is no novice in taking a hint ; 
His laughing blue eyes now with piety glisten'd ;' 
His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint. 
"Who would have thought," the urchin cries, 
" That Love could so well, so' gravely disguise 
His wandering wings and wounding eyes ?" 

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, 
Young Novice ; to him all thy orisons rise ; 
He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, 
He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs, 
Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast, 
And angels themselves would admit such a guest 
If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest. 



THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH 
PLEASURES AND W T OES. 

Air — The Bunch of Green Rushes that grew at tht 
Brim. 

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, 

That chase one another, like waves of the deep, — 
Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows, 

Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. 
So closely our whims on our miseries tread, 

That the laugh is aw T aked ere the tear can be dried; 
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed, 

The goose-feathers of folly can turn it aside. 
But pledge me the cup — if existence would cloy, 

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, 
Be ours the light Grief that is sister to Joy, 

And the short brilliant Folly that flashes and diej ! 

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, 

Through fields full of sun-shine, with heart full of 
play, 
Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, 

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. 1 
Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and 
have tasted 

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, 
Their time with the flowers on the margin have 
wasted, 

And left their light urns all as empty as mine ! 
But pledge me the goblet — while Idleness weaves 

Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see 
One bright drop or two, that has fallen on the leaves 

From her fountain divine, 't is sufficient for me ! 



No. V. 

It is but fair to those who take an interest in this 
Work, to state that it is now very near its termination, 
and that the Sixth Number, which shall speedily ap- 
pear, will, most probably, be the last of the series. 

It is not so much from a want of materials, and 
still less from any abatement of zeal or industry, that 
we have adopted the resolution of bringing our task 
to a close ; but we feel so proud, for our country's 



1 Proposito florem pra;tulit officio.— Propert. 1. i. ekg 2Q 



I 



IRISH MELODIES 



3rf3 



sake md our own, of the interest which this purely 
Irish Work has excited, and so anxious lest a particle 
of that interest should be lost by any ill-judged pro- 
traction of its existence, that we think it wiser to take 
away the cup from the lip, while its flavour is yet, 
we trust, fresh and sweet, than to risk any longer 
trial of the charm, or give so much as not to leave 
some wish for more. In speaking thus I allude en- 
tirely to the Airs, which are, of course, the main at- 
traction of these volumes ; and, though we have still 
many popular and delightful Melodies to produce, 1 
yet it cannot be denied that we should soon expe- 
rience some difficulty in equalling the richness and 
novelty of the earlier Numbers, for which, as we had 
the choice of all before us, we naturally selected only 
the most rare and beautiful. The Poetry, too, would 
be sure to sympathize with the decline of the Music, 
and, however feebly my words have kept pace with 
the excellence of the Airs, they would follow their 
falling off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity. So that, 
altogether, both pride and prudence counsel us to 
stop, while the Work is yet. we believe, flourishing 
and attractive, ar.d, in the imperial attitude, " stantes 
mori" before we incur the charge either of altering 
for the worse, or, what is equally unpardonable, con- 
tinuing too long the same. 

We beg, however, to say, it is only in the event of 
our failing to find Airs as exquisite as most of those 
we have given, that we mean thus to anticipate the 
natural period of dissolution, like those Indians who 
put their relatives to death when they become feeble. 

T. M. 

Mat/field Cottage, Ashbourne, 
December, 1813. 



OH, THE SHAMROCK! 

Air — Alley CroJter. 

Through Erin's Isle, 

To sport awhile, 
As Love and Valour wandar'd, 

With Wit, the sprite, 

Whose quiver bright 
A thousand arrows squander'd ; 

Where'er they pass, 

A triple grass 2 
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, 

As softly green 

As emeralds, seen 
Through purest crystal gleaming ! 
Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock, 



1 Among these is Savourna Deelish, which I have 
hitherto only withheld, from the diffidence I feel in treading 
upon the same ground with Mr. Campbell, whose beautiful 
words to this fine air have taken too strong possession of all 
ears and hearts, for me to think of producing any impression 
after him. I suppose, however, I must attempt it for the 
next Number. 

2 Saint. Patrick is said to have made use of that species 
of the trefoil, in Ireland called the Shamrock, in explaining 
the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not 
know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this 
plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, 
was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, "standing 
upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her 
hand." 



Chosen leaf 
Of bard and chief, 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 

Says Valour, " See, 

They spring for me, 
Those leafy gems of morning 1" 

Says Love, " No, no, 

For me they grow, 
My fragrant path adorning !" 

But Wit perceives 

The triple leaves, 
And cries, " Oh ! do not sever 

A type that blends 

Three god-like friends, 
Love, Valour, Wit, for ever !" 
Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock 

Chosen leaf 

Of bard and chief, 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 

■So, firmly fond 

May last the bond 
They wove that morn together, 

And ne'er may fall 

One drop of gall 
On Wit's celestial feather ! 

May Love, as shoot 

His flowers and fruit, 
Of thorny falsehood weed 'em ! 

May Valour ne'er 

His standard rear 
Against the cause of Freedom ! 
Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! 

Chosen leaf 

Of bard and chief, 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 



AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT. 

Air — Molly, my Dear. 
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I flv 
To the lone vale we loved when fife was warm in 
thine eye, 
And I think that if spy-its can steal from the regions 

of air 
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to 
me there, 
And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky ! 

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hea/ 
When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on 
the ear, 
And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad ori 

son rolls, 
I think, oh, my love ! 't is thy voice from the king 
dom of souls, 1 
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so 
dear. 



1 " There are countries," says Montaigne, " where they 
believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty 
in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the 
words we utter, which we call Echo." 



534 



MOORE'S WORKS 



ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. 

Air — Moll Roe in the Morning. 
One bumper at parting ! — though many 

Have circled the board since we met, 
The fullest, the saddest of any 

Remains to be crown'd by us yet. 
The sweetness that pleasure has in i 

Is always so slow to come forth, 
That seldom, alas, till the minute 

It dies, do we know half its worth ! 
But fill — may our life's happy measure 

Be all of such moments made up ; 
They're born on the bosom of pleasure, 

They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 
As onward we journey, how pleasant 

To pause and inhabit awhile 
Those few sunny spots, like the present, 

That 'mid the dull wilderness smile ! 
But Time, like a pitiless master, ' 

Cries, " Onward !" and spurs the gay hours ; 
And never does Time travel faster 

Than when his way lies among flowers. 
But, come — may our life's happy measure 

Be all of such moments made up ; 
They 're born on the bosom of pleasure, 

They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 

This evening we saw the sun sinking 

In waters his glory made bright — 
Oh ! trust me, our farewell of drinking 

Should be like that farewell of light. 
You saw how he finish'd, by darting 

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim — 
60 fill up ! — let 's shine, at our parting, 

In full liquid glory, like him. 
And oh ! may our life's happy measure 

Of moments like this be made up ; 
, 'T was born on the bosom of pleasure, 

It dies 'mid the tears of the cup ! 



T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER 

Am — Groves of Blarney. 
'T is the last rose of summer, 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred, 

No rose-bud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes, 

Or give sigh for sigh ! 

I '11 not leave thee, thou lone one . 

To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go, sleep thou with them. 
Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed, 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may I follow, 

When friendships decay, 
A.nd from Love's shining circle 

The gems drop away ! 



When true hearts lie withered, 
And fond ones are flown, 

Oh ! who would inhabit 
This bleak world alone ? 



THE YOUNG MAY-MOON 

Air— The Dandy 01 
The young May-moon is beaming, love . 
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love ! 
How sweet to rove 
Through Morna's grove, 1 
While the drowsy world is dreaming, love . 
Then awake ! — the heavens look bright, my dear! 
'T is never too late for delight, my dear ! 
And the best of all ways 
To lengthen our days, 
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear ! 

Now all the world is sleeping, love ! 
But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love ] 
And I, whose star, 
More glorious far, 
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love . 
Then awake ! — till rise of sun, my dear ! 
The sage's glass we '11 shun, my dear ! 

Or, in watching, the flight 

Of bodies cf light, 
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear ! 



THE MINSTREL-BOY. 

Air — The Moreen. 
The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, 

In the ranks of death you '11 find him , 
His father's sword he has girded on, 

And his wild harp slung behind him. — 
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, 

" Though all the world betrays thee, 
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 

One faithful harp shall praise thee !" 

The Minstrel fell ! — but the foeman's chain 

Could not bring his proud soul under ! 
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, 

For he tore its chords asunder ; 
And said, " No chains shall sully thee, 

Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
Thy songs were made for the pure and free 

They shall never sound in slavery !" 



THE SONG OF O'RUARK, PRINCE OF 
BREFFNI. 2 
Air — The pretty Girl milking her Cow. 
The valley lay smiling before me, 
AVhere lately I left her behind ; 



1 " Steals silently to Morna's grove." 

See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collec- 
tion, hy John Brown, one of my earliest college companions 
and friends, whose death was as singularly melancholy and 
unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and 
exemplary. 

2 These stanzas are founded upon an event of most mo- 
lancholy importance to Ireland, if, as we are told oy out 



=J 



IRISH MELODIES. 



335 



Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, 
That sadden'd the joy of my mind. 

I look'd for the lamp, which she told me 
Should shine when her pilgrim return'd; 

But, though darkness began to infold me, 
No lamp from the battlements burn'd ! 

I flew to her chamber — 't was lonely 

As if the loved tenant lay dead ! — 
Ah ! would it were death, and death only I 

But no — the young false one had fled. 
And there hung the lute, that could soften 

My very worst pains into bliss, 
While the hand that had waked it so often 

Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss 

There was a time, falsest of women ! 

When Breffni's good sword would have sought 
That man, through a million of foemen, 

Who dared but to doubt thee in thought! 
While now — oh, degenerate daughter 

Of Erin ! — how fall'n is thy fame ! 
And, through ages of bondage and slaughter, 

Our country shall bleed for thy shame. 

Already the curse is upon her, 
. And strangers her vallies profane ; 
They come to divide — to dishonour, 

And tyrants they long will remain ! 
But, onward ! — the -.green banner rearing, 

Go, flesh every sword to the hilt ; 
On our side is Virtue and Erin ! 

On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt. 



OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE 
OF OUR OWN. 

Air — Sheela, na Guira. 
Oh ! had we some bright little isle of our own, 
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, 
Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming bowers, 
And the bee banquets on through a whole year of 
flowers ; 
Where the sun loves to pause 

With so fond a delay, 
That the night only draws 
A thin veil o'er the day ; 
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, 
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give ! 



Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of pro- 
fiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are 
the circumstances as related by O'Halloran. " The King of 
Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearb- 
horgil, daughter to the King of Meath, and though she had 
been for some time married to O'Ruark, Prince of Breflhi, 
yet it. could not restrain his passion. They carried on a pri- 
vate correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark 
intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent 
in those days,) and conjured him to embrace that opportu- 
nity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a 
lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the 
summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of 
Ferns." — The Monarch Roderick espoused the cause of 
O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtain- 
ed the assistance of Henry II. 

"Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis, (as I find him in an 
old translation,) " is the variable and fickle nature of wo- 
man, by whom all mischiefs in the world (for the most part) 
do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, 
and by the destruction of Troy." 



There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, 
We should love, as they loved in the first golden time; 
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, 
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there !• 

With affection, as free 
From decline as the bowers, 

And with Hope, like the bee, 
Living always on flowers, 
Our life should resemble a long day of light, 
And our death come on, holy and calm as the night ! 



FAREWELL !— BUT, WHENEVER YOU 
WELCOME THE HOUR. 

Air — Moll Roone. 

Farewell ! — but, whenever you welcome the houv 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower- 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return — not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain- 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw 
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with 
you ! 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, 
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you that night , 
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, 
And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles ! — 
Too bless'd, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, 
Some kind voice had murmur'd, "I wish he were 
here !" 

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ; 
Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd '. 
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd— 
You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you wilJ„ 
But the scent of the ioo^s wiJ hang round it still 



OH ! DOUBT ME NOT. 

Air — Yellow Wat and the Fox. 
Oh ! doubt me not — the season 

Is o'er when Folly made me rove, 
And now the vestal Reason 

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love 
Although this heart was early blown, 
And fairest hands disturb'd the tree, 
They only shook some blossoms down, — 
Its fruit has all been kept for thee. 
Then doubt me not — the season 

Is o'er when Folly made me rove, 
And now the vestal Reason 

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love 

And though my lute no longer 

May sing of Passion's ardent spell, 

Yet, trust me, all the stronger 
I feel the bliss I do not tell 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The bee through many a garden roves, 

And hums his lay of courtship o'er, 

r But, when he finds the flower he loves. 

He settles there, and hums no more. 

Then doubt me not — the season 

Is o'er when Folly kept me free, 
And now the vestal Reason 

Shall guard the flame awaked by thee. 



YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. 1 

Air — Were la Clerk. 
You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, 
meekly she bless'd her humble lot, 



How 



When the stranger, William, had made her his bride 
And love was the light of their lowly cot. 

Together they toil'd through winds and rains 
Till William at length, in sadness, said, 

u We must seek our fortune on other plains ;" 
Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. 

They roam'd a long and a weary way, 

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, 
When now, at close of one stormy day, 

They see a proud castle among the trees. 
* To-night," said the youth, " we'll shelter there , 

The wind blows cold, the hour is late:" — ■ 
So he blew the horn with a' chieftain's air, 

And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate. 

"Now, welcome, Lady !" exclaim' d the youth, — 

" This castle is thine, and these dark woods all." 
She believed him wild, but his words were truth, 

For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall ! — 
And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves 

What William the stranger woo'd and wed; 
And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves, 

Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed. 



I'D MOURN THE HOPES. 

Am— The Rose Tree. 
. I'd mourn the hopes that leave me, 

If thy smiles had left me too ; 
I'd weep when friends deceive me, 

If thou wert, like them, untrue. 
But, while I've thee before me, 

With heart so warm and eyes so bright, 
No clouds can linger o'er me,— 
That smile turns then^all to light ! 

*T is not in fate to harm me, 

While fate leaves thy love to me ; 
*T is not in joy to charm me, 

Unless joy be shared with thee. 
One minute's dream about thee 

Were worth a long, an endless year 
Of waking bliss without thee, 

My own love, my only dear! j 

And,] though the hope be gone, love, 
That long sparkled o'er our way, 

Oh ! we shall journey on, love, 
More safely without its ray. 



J This Ballad was suggested by a well-known and inte 
resting story told of a certain noble family in England. J 



Far better lights shall win me 
Along the path I've yet to roam,— 

The mind that burns within me, 
And pure smiles from thee at home. 

Thus, when the lamp that lighted 

The traveller, at first goes out, 
He feels awhile benighted, 

And looks around, in fear and doubt. 
But soon, the prospect clearing, 

By cloudless star-light on he treads, 
And thinks no lamp so cheering 

As that light which Heaven sheds ! 



No. VI. 



In presenting this Sixth Number as our last, and 
bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, we shall not 
answer very confidently for the strength of our reso- 
lution, nor feel quite sure that it may not prove, after 
all, to be only one of those eternal farewells which a 
lover takes of his mistress occasionally. Our only 
motive indeed for discontinuing the Work was a fear 
that our treasures were beginning to be exhausted, 
and an unwillingness to descend to the gathering of 
mere seed-pearl, after the very valuable gems it hag 
been our lot to string together. But this intention, 

hich we announced in our Fifth Number, has ex- 
cited an anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only 
pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us ; for 
the various contributions we have received in con- 
sequence have enriched our collection with so many 
choice and beautiful Ajrs, that, if we keep to oui re- 
solution of publishing no more, it will certainly be an 
instance of forbearance and self-command unexam- 
pled in the history of poets and musicians. 

Mayfield, Ashbourne, T. M. 

' March. 1815. 



COME O'ER THE SEA. 

Air— Cuishlih ma Chree. 
Come o'er the sea, 
Maiden ! with me, 
Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows I 
Seasons may roll, 
But the true soul 
Burns the same, where'er it goes. 
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ; 
'T is life where thou art, 't is death where thou art not . 
Then, come o'er the sea, 
Maiden ! with me, 
Come wherever the wild wind blow ; 
Seasons may roll, 
But the true soul 
Burns the same, where'er it goes 

Is not the sea 

Made for the free, 
Land for courts and chains alone ? 

Here we are slaves, 

But, on the waves, 
Love and Liberty 's all our own ! 



IRISH MELODIES. 



337 



No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us. 
AU earth forgot, and all heaven around us ! — ■ 
Then, come o'er the sea, 
Maiden ! with me, 
Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows ! 
Seasons may roll, 
But the true soul 
Rums the same, where'er it goes. 



HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS 
SHADED 1 

Am— Sly Patrick. 
Has sorrow thy young days shaded, 

As clouds o'er the morning fleet ? 
Too fast have those young days faded, 

That, even in sorrow, were sweet ? 
Does Time with his cold wing wither 

Each feeling that once was dear ? — 
Then, child of misfortune ! come hither, 

I'll weep with thee, tear foi tear. 

Has love to that soul, so tender, 

Been like our Lagenian mine, 1 
Where sparkles of golden splendour 

All over the surface shine — 
But, if in pursuit we go deeper, 

Allured by the gleam that shone, 
Ah ! false as the dream of the sleeper, 

Like Love, the bright ore is gone. 

Has Hope, like the bird in the story, 2 

That flitted from tree to tree 
With the talisman's glittering glory — 

Has Hope been that bird to thee ? 
On branch after branch alighting, 

The gem did she still display, 
And, when nearest and most inviting, 

Then waft the fair gem away ! 

If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, 

When Sorrow herself look'd bright ; 
If thus the fond hope has cheated, 

That led thee along so light ; 
If thus, too, the cold world wither 

Each^ feeling that once was dear ; — ■ 
Come, child of misfortune ! come hither, 

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. 



NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. 
Air — Luggelaw. 
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers 

Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, 
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers, 

He thinks the full quire of Heaven is near,— 
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken, 
This heart long had sleeping lain, 



1 Our Wicklow Gold-Mines, to which this verse alludes, 
deserve, I fear, tlie character here given of them. 

2 " The bird having got its prize, settled not far off, with 
the talisman in his mouth. The Prince drew near it, hoping 
it would drop it: hut, as he approached, the bird took wing, 
and settled again," etc.— Arabian jYirrhts, Story of KummTr 
al Zummaun and the Princess of China. 

2U 



Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken 
To such benign, bless'd sounds again. 

Sweet voice of comfort ! 't was like the stealing 

Of summer wind through some wreathed shell- 
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling 

Of all my soul echoed to its spell ! 
'T was whisper' d balm — 't was sunshine spoken !•— 

I'd live years of grief and pain, 
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken 

By such benign, bless'd sounds again! 



WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. 
Air — O Patrick ! fly from me. 
When first I met thee, warm and young, 

There shone such truth about thee, 
And on thy lip such promise hung, 

I did not dare to doubt thee. 
I saw thee change, yet still relied, 
Still clung with hope the fonder, 
And thought, though false to all beside, 
From me thou couldst not wander. 
But go, deceiver ! go, — 

The heart, whose hopes could make it 
Trust one so false, so low, 

Deserves that thou shouldst break it ! 

When ever}- tongue thy follies named, 

I fled the unwelcome story ; 
Or found, in even the faults they blamed, 

Some gleams of future glory. 
J still was true, when nearer friends 

Conspired to wrong, to slight thee ; 
The heart that now thy falsehood rends, 
Would then have bled to right thee. 
But go, deceiver ! go, — 

Some day, perhaps, thou' It waken 
From pleasure's dream, to know 
The grief of hearts forsaken. 

Even now, though youth its bloom has shed, 

No lights of age adorn thee ; 
The few who loved thee once have fled, 

And they who flatter scorn thee. 
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves, 

No genial ties enwreathe it ; 
The smiling there, like light on graves, 
Has rank, cold hearts beneath it ! 
Go — go — though worlds were thine, 

I would not now surrender 
One taintless tear of mine 
For all thy guilty splendour ! 

And days may come, thou false one ! yet, 

When even those ties shall sever ; 
When thou wilt call, with vain regret. 

On her thou'st lost for ever ! 
On her who, in thy fortune's faL, 

With smiles had still received thee, 
And gladly died to prove thee all 
Her fancy first believed thee. 
Go — go — 't is vain to curse, 

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee , 
Hate cannot wish thee worse 
Than guilt and shame have made thee. 



338 



MOORE'S WORKS 



WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. 

Air — Paddy WJiack. 
While History's Muse the memorial was keeping 

Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, 
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping, 

For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. 
But oh ! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, 
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, 
She saw History write, 
With a pencil of light 
That illumed all the volume, herJWE Islington's 
name! 

"Hail, Star of my Isle !" said the Spirit, all sparkling 
With beams, such as break from her own dewy 
skies ; — 
"Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, 
I've watch' d for some glory like thine to arise. 
For, though heroes I've number' d, unbless'd was 
their lot, 
And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross- ways of 
Fame ; — 

But, oh ! there is not 
One dishonouring blot 
On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's 
name ! 

"Yet, still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, 

The grandest, the purest even thou hast yet known ; 
Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, 

Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own, 
At the foot of that throne, ftr whose weal thou hast 
stood, 

Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame — 
And, bright o'er the flood 
Of her tears and her blood, 
Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's 



THE TIME I' VE LOST IN WOOING. 

Air — Peas upon a Trencher, 
The time I 've lost in wooing, 
In watching and pursuing 

The light that lies 
• In Woman's eyes, 
Has been my heart's undoing. 
Though Wisdom oft has sought me, 
I scorn'd the lore she brought me, 

My only books 

Were Woman's looks, 
And folly 's all they 've taught me. 

Her smile when Beauty granted, 
I hung with gaze enchanted, 

Like him, the Sprite, 1 

Whom maids by night 
Oft meet in glen that 's haunted. 

1 This alludes to a kind of Irish Fairy, which is to be met 
with, they say, in the fields, at dusk: — as long as you keep 
your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power ; hut the 
moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing 
some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was 
the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high 
authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan (in a note upon 
her national and interesting Novel, O'Donnel,) has given a 
verv different account of that goblin. 



Like him, too, Beauty won me 
But while her eyes were on me — 

If once their ray 

Was turn'd away. 
Oh ! winds could not outrun me 

And are those follies going ? 
And is my proud heart growing 

Too cold or wise 

For brilliant eyes 
Again to set it glowing ? 
No— vain, alas ! the endeavour 
From bonds so sweet to sever ;— 

Poor Wisdom's chance 

Against a glance 
Is now as weak as ever ! 



WHERE IS THE SLAVE ? 

Air — Sios agus sios Horn. 
Where is the slave, so lowlv, 
Condemn'd to chains unholy, 

Who, could he burst 

His bonds at first, 
Would pine beneath them slowly ? 
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, 
Would wait till time decay'd it, 

When thus its wing 

At once may spring 
To the throne of Him who made it ? 
Farew r ell, Erin ! — farewell all 
Who live to weep our fall ! 

Less dear the laurel growing, 
Alive, untouch'd, and blowing, 

Than that whose braid 

Is pluck' d to shade 
The brows with victory glowing ! 
We tread the land that bore us, 
Her green flag glitters o'er us, 

The friends we 've tried 

Are by our side, 
And the foe we hate before us ! 
Farewell, Erin ! — farewell all 
Who live to weep our fall ! 



COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 

Air— Lough Sheeting. 
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer ? 
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is 

still here ; 
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast 
And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last ! 

Oh ! what was love made for, if 't is not the same 
Through joy and through torrents, through glory and 

shame ? 

I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart, 
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art ! 

Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, 
And thy Angel I' 11 be, 'mid the horrors of this, — 
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pur 

sue, 
And shield thee, and save thee, or— perish there too . 



IRISH MELODIES 



339 



'T IS GONE, AND FOR EVER. 

Air — Savournah Deelish. 
T is gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, 
Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the 
dead — 
When man, from the slumber of ages awaking, 
Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it 
fled! 
*T is gone — and the gleams it has left of its burning 
But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, 
That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, 
And, darkest of all, hapless Erin ! o'er thee. 

F >r high was thy hope, when those glories were 
darting 

Around thee, through all the gross clouds of the 
world ; 
When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting, 

At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd. 1 
Oh, never shall earth see a moment so splendid ! 
Then, then — had one Hymn of Deliverance blended 
The tongues of all nations — how sweet had ascended 

The first note of Liberty, Erin ! from thee. 

But, shame on those tyrants who envied the blessing ! 

And shame on the light race, unworthy its good, 
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing 

The young hope of Freedom, baptized it in blood ! 
Then vanish'd for ever that fair, sunny vision, 
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision, 
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright and elysian, 

As first it arose, my lost Erin ! on thee. 



I SAW FROM THE BEACH. 

Air — Miss Molly. 
I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, 

A bark o'er the waters moved gloriously on ; 
I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining, — 

The bark was still there, but the waters were gone ! 

Ah ! such is the fate- of our life's early promise, 
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known: 

Each wave, that we danced on at morning ebbs from 
us, 
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone ! 

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning 

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night ; — 
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of 
Morning, 
Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best 
light. 

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's return- 
ing^ 
When passion first waked a new life through his 
frame, 

And his soul — like the wood that grows precious in 
burning — 

Gave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite flame ! 



1 "The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the 
ancient Irish to the royal banner. 



FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. 

Air — Bob and Joan. 
Fill, the bumper fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 
Wit's electric flame 

Ne'er so swiftly passes, 
As when through the frame 

It shoots from brimming glasses. 
Fill the bumper fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care, 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 

Sages can, they say, 

Grasp the lightning's pinions, 
And bring down its ray 

From the starr'd dominions :•»- 
So we, sages, sit, 

And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning, 
From the heaven of wit 

Draw down all its lightning ! 
Fill the bumper, etc. 

Wouldst thou know what first 

Made our souls inherit 
This ennobling thirst 

For wine's celestial spirit ? 
It chanced upon that day, 

When, as bards inform us, 
Prometheus stole away 

The living fires that warm us. 
Fill the bumper, etc. 

The careless Youth, when up 

To Glory's fount aspiring, 
Took nor urn nor cup 

To hide the pilfer' d fire in : — 
But oh his joy ! when, round, 

The halls of heaven spying, 
Amongst the stars he found 

A bowl of Bacchus lying. 
Fill the bumper, etc. 

Some drops were in that bowl, 

Remains of last night's pleasure, 
With which the Sparks of soul 

Mix'd their burning treasure ! 
Hence the goblet's shower 

Hath such spells to win us— 
Hence its mighty powei 

O'er that flame within us. 
Fill the bumper, etc. 



DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY 

Air — New Langolee. 
Dear Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found 
thee; 
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, 1 



1 In that rebellious but beautiful song, " When Erin first 
rose," there is, if I recollect right, the following line: — 
" The dark chain of silence was thrown o'er the deep ! H 
The chain of silence was a sort of practical figure of 
rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of "a 



When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound 
thee, 
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and 
song! 
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness 

Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; 
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sad- 
ness, 
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. 

Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, 
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall 
twine ; 
Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slum- 
bers, 
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than 
mine. 
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, 

Have throbb'd at our lay, 't is thy glory alone ; 
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, 
And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own. 



No. VII. 

If I had consulted only my own judgment, this 
Work would not have been extended beyond the Six 
Numbers already published ; which contain, perhaps, 
the flower of our National Melodies, and have at- 
tained a rank in public favour, of which I would not 
willingly risk the forfeiture by degenerating, in any 
way, from those merits that were its source. What- 
ever treasures of our music were still in reserve (and 
it will be seen, I trust, that they are numerous and 
valuable,) I would gladly have left to future poets to 
glean ; and, with the ritual words " tibi trado" would 
have delivered up the torch into other hands, before 
it had lost much of its light in my own. But the call 
for a continuance of the work has been, as I under- 
stand from the Publisher, so general, and we have 
received so many contributions of old and beautiful 
airs, 1 the suppression of which, for the enhancement 
of those we have published, would resemble too 
much the policy of the Dutch in burning their spices, 
that 'I have been persuaded, though not without con- 
siderable diffidence in my success, to commence a 
new series of the Irish Melodies. T. M. 



MY GENTLE HARP! 

Air — The Coina or Dirge. 
My gentle Harp ! once more I waken 
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain ; 

celebratod contention for precedence between Finn and 
Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending 
bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostili- 
ties, shook the chain of silence, and flung themselves among 
the ranks." See also the Ode to Gaul, the son of Moini, in 
Miss Brooke's Reliques of Irish Poetry. 

1 One gentleman, in particular, whose name 1 shall feel 
happy in being allowed to mention, has not only sent us near 
fo'ty ancient airs, but has communicated many curious 
fragments of Irish poetry, and some interesting traditions, 
current in the country where he resides, illustrated by 
sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer; 
all o. which, though too late for the present Number, will 
oe of Infinite service to us in the prosecution of our uxsk 



In tears our last farewell was taken, 
And now in tears we meet again. 

No light of joy hath o'er thee broken, 

But— like those harps, whose heavenly skill 

Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken— 
Thou hang'st upon the willows still. 

And yet, since last thy chord resounded, 

An hour of peace and triumph came, 
And many an ardent bosom bounded, 

With hopes — that now are turn'd to shame. 
Yet even then, while Peace was singing 

Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, 
Though joy and hope to others bringing, 

She only brought new tears to thee. 

Then who can ask for notes of pleasure, 

My drooping harp ! from chords like thine ? 
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure 

As ill would suit the swan's decline ! 
Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, 

Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, 
When even the wreaths in which I dress thee, 

Are sadly mix'd— half flowers, half chains 

But come — if yet thy frame can borrow 

One breath of joy— oh, breathe for me, 
And show the world, in chains and sorrow 

How sweet thy music still can be ; 
How gaily, even 'mid gloom surrounding, 

Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill- 
Like Memnon's broken image, sounding, 

'Mid desolation, tuneful still! 1 



AS SLOW OUR SHIP. 
Air— The Girl I left behind me 
As slow our ship her foamy track 

Against the wind was cleaving, 
Her trembling pennant still look'd back 

To that dear isle 't was leaving. 
So loth we part from all we love, 

From all the links that bind us ; 
So turn our hearts, where'er we rove, 

To those we've left behind us ! 

When round the bowl, of vanish'd years 

We talk, with joyous seeming, — 
With smiles, that might as well be tears, 

So faint, so sad their beaming ; 
While memory brings us back again 

Each early tie that twined us, 
Oh, sweet 's the cup that circles then 

To those we 've left behind us ! 

And when, in other climes, we meet 

Some isle or vale enchanting, 
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, 

And nought but love is wanting ; 
We think how great had been our bliss, 

If Heaven had but assign'd us 
To live and die in scenes like this, 

With some we 've left behind us ! 



1 Dimidio magicae resonant ubi IVIemiione chorda*, 
Atque vetus Thebe centum jucet obruta portis. 

Juvenai 



IRISH MELODIES 



341 



As travellers oft look back, at eve, 

When eastward darkly going, 
To gaze upon that light they leave 

Still faint behind them glowing, — 
So, when the close of pleasure's day 

To gloom hath near consign'd us, 
We turn to catch one fading ray 

Of* joy that's left behind us. 



IN THE MORNING OF LIFE. 

Air — The little Harvest Rose. 
In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, 

And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, 
When we live in a bright beaming world of our own? 

And the light that surrounds us is all from within : 
Oh, it is not, believe me, in that happy time 

We can love as in hours of less transport we may: — 
Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime, 

But affection is warmest when these fade away. 



When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, 

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return ; 
When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so 
high, 

First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn ; 
Then, then is the moment affection can sway 

With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; 
Love nursed among pleasures is faithless as they, 

But the Love born of sorrow, like sorrow, is true ! 

In climes full of sun-shine, though splendid their dyes, 

Yet faint is the odour the flowers shed about ; 
Tis the clouds and the mists of our own weeping 
skies 

That call the full spirit of fragrancy out. 
So the wild glow of passion may kindle from mirth, 

But 'tis only in grief true affection appears; — 
And, even though to smiles it may first owe its birth, 

All the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. 



fi 



WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH. 

Air — Limerick's Lamentation. 
Whex cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast 
loved, 
Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then ; 
Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed, 

Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again. 
And, oh ! if 'tis pain to remember how fir 

From the pathways of light he was tempted to 
roam, 
Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star 
That arose on his darkness and guided him home. 

From thee and thy innocent beauty first came 

The revealings, that taught him true Love to adore, 
To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame 

From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. 
O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild, 

Thou earnest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea ; 
A.nd, if happiness purely and glowingly smiled 

On his evening hor>7on, the light was fium fhee. 



And though sometimes the shade of past folly would 
rise, 

And though Falsehood again would allure him t 
stray, 
He but turn'd to the glory that dwelt in those eyes, 

And the folly, the falsehood soon vanished away. 
As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim, 

At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair, 
So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him, 

He but flew to that smile, and rekindled it there. 



Rem] 



REMEMBER THEE! 

Air — Castle Tirowen. 



emember thee ! yes, wdiile there's life in this heart, 
(it shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art ; 
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers, 
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. 



Wert thou all that I wish thee, — great, glorious, and 
free — 
irst flower of the earth and first gem of the sea, — 
might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow, 

But, oh ! could I love thee more deeply than now 1 

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs. 
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons- 
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest t 
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from in/ 
breast ! 



WREATH THE BOWL . 
Air — Norar Kista. 

Wreath the bowl 

With flowers of soul, 
The brightest wit can find us ; 

WV11 take a flight 

Towards heaven to-night, 
And leave dull earth behind us ! 

Should Love amid 

The wreaths be hid 
That Joy, the enchanter, brings us 

No danger fear, 

While wine is near, 
We'll drown him if he stings us. 

Then wreath the bowl 

With flowers of soul, 
The brightest wit can find us ; 

We'll take a flight 

Towards heaven to-night, 
And leave dull earth behind us ! 

'T was nectar fed 

Of old, 't is said, 
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos ; 

And man may brew 

His nectar too, 
The rich receipt 's as follows : 

Take wine like this, 

Let looks of bliss 
Around it well be blended, 

Then bring wit's beam 

To warm the stream, 
And there 's your nectar splendid '• 



342 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



So, wreath the bowl 
With flowers of soul, 

The brightest wit can find us ; 
We'll take a flight 
Towards heaven to-night, 

And leave dull earth behind us ! 

Say, why did Time 

His glass sublime 
Fill up with sands unsightly 

When wine, he knew, 

Runs brisker through, 
And sparkles far more brightly ! 

Oh, lend it us, 

And, smiling thus, 
The glass in two we'd sever, 

Make pleasure glide 

In double tide, 
And fill both ends for ever ! 

Then wreath the bowl 

With flowers of soul, 
The brightest wit can find us ! 

We'll take a flight 

Towards heaven to-night, 
And leave dull earth behind us ! 



WHENE'ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES. 
Air — Father Quin. 
Whene'er I see those smiling eyes, 

All fill'd with hope, and joy, and light, 
As if no cloud could ever rise, 

To dim a heaven so purely bright — 
I sigh to think how soon that brow 

In grief may lose its every ray, 
And that fight heart, so joyous now, 

Almost forget it once was gay. 

For Time will come with all his blights, 

The ruin'd hope — the friend unkind — 
The love that leaves, where'er it lights, 

A chill'd or burning heart behind ! 
While youth, that now like snow appears, 

Ere sullied by the darkening rain, 
When once 't is touch'd by sorrow's tears, 

Will never shine so bright again ! 



IF THOU 'LT BE MINE. 

Air — The Winnowing Sheet. 
If thou 'It be mine, the treasures of air, 
Of earth and sea, shall lie at thy feet ; 
Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair, 

Or in Hope's sweet music is most sweet, 
Shall be ours, if thou wilt be mine, love ! 

Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove, 
A voice divine shall talk in each stream, 

The stars shall look like worlds of love, 
And this earth be all one beautiful dream 
In our eyes — if thou wilt be mine, love ! 

And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high, 
.Like streams that come from heavenward hills, 



Shall keep our hearts— like meads, that lie 
To be bathed by those eternal rills— 
Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love ' 

All this and more the Spirit of Love 

Can breathe o'er them who feel his spells ; 

That heaven, which forms his home above, 
He can make on earth, wherever he dwells^ 
And he wilU-if thou wilt be mine, love ! 



TO LADIES' EYES. 

Air — Fague a Ballagh. 
To ladies' eyes a round, boy, 

We can't refuse, we can't refuse, 
Though bright eyes so abound, boy, 

'T is hard to chuse, 't is hard to chuse. 
For thick as stars that lighten 

Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers, 
The countless eyes that brighten 

This earth of ours, this earth of ours.. 
But fill the cup — where'er, boy, 

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
We 're sure to find Love there, boy, 

So drink them all ! so drink them all ! 

Some looks there are so holy, 

They seem but given, they seem but given. 
As splendid beacons solely, 

To light to heaven, to light to heaven. 
While some — oh ! ne'er believe them — 

With tempting ray, with tempting ray, 
Would lead us (God forgive them !) 

The other way, the other way. 
But fill the cup — where'er, boy, 

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
We 're sure to find Love there, boy, 

So drink them all ! so drink them all ! 

In some, as in a mirror, 

Love seems portray'd, Love seems portray' d, 
But shun the flattering error, 

'T is but his shade, 't is but his shade. 
Himself has fix'd his dwelling 

In eyes we know, in eyes we know, 
And lips — but this is telling, 

So here they go ! so here they go ! 
Fill up, fill up — where'er, boy, 

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
We 're sure to find Love there, boy, 

So drink them all ! so drink them all ' 



FORGET NOT THE FIELD. 

Air — Tlie Lamentation of Aughrim. 
Forget not the field where they perish'd, 

The truest, the last of the brave, 
All gone — and the bright hope they cherish'd 

Gone with them, and quench'd in their grave 

Oh ! could we from death but recover 
Those hearts, as they bounded before, 

In the face of high Heaven to fight over 
That combat for freedom once more :— 



IRISH MELODIES. 



313 



Could the chain for an instant be riven 
Which Tyranny flung round us then, 

Oh ! 't is not in Man nor in Heaven, 
To let Tyranny bind it again ! 

But t is past — and, though blazon'd in story 
The name of our Victor may be, 

Accursed is the march of that glory 

Which treads o'er the hearts of the free. 

Far dearer the grave or the prison, 

Illumed by one patriot name, 
Than the trophies of all who have risen 

On liberty's ruins to fame ! 



THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE. 

Air — Noch bonin shin doe. 
They may rail at this life — from the hour I began it, 

I 've found it a life full of kindness and bliss ; 
And, until they can show me some happier planet, 

More social and bright, I '11 content me with this 
As long as the world has such eloquent eyes, 

As before me this moment enraptured I see, 
They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies, 

But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. 

In Mercury's star, where each minute can bring them 

New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, 
Though the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing 
them, 1 

They 've none, even there, more enamour'd than I. 
And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love, 

And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, 
They may talk as they will of their Edens above, 

But this eai.V is the planet for vou, love, and me. 

In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour, 

At twilight so often we 've roam'd through the dew, 
Tnere are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as 
tender, 

And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you. 2 
But, though they were even more bright than the queen 

Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea, 
As 1 never those fair young celestialsjiave seen, 

Why, — this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. 

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, 

Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, 
Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station, 

Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could 
spare. 
Oh ! think what a world we should have of it here, 

If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee, 
Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere, 

And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me. 



OH FOR l'HE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME ! 

Am — Name Unknown. 
On for the swords of former time ! 
Oh for the men who bore them, 



When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime, 

And tyrants crouch'd before them ! 
When pure yet, ere courts began 

With honours to enlave him, 
The best honours worn by Man 

Were those which Virtue gave him. 
Oh for the swords of former time ! 

Oh for the men who bore them, 
When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime, 

And tyrants crouch'd before them ! 

Oh for the kings who flourish'd then ! 

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, 
When hearts and hands of freeborn men 

Were all the ramparts round them ! 
When, safe built on bosoms true, 

The throne was but the centre, 
Round which Love a circle drew, 

That Treason durst not enter. 
Oh for the kings who flourish'd then ! 

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, 
When hearts and hands of freeborn men 

Were all the ramparts round them ! 



No. VIII. 



NE'ER ASK THE HOUR. 

Air — My Husband r s a Journey to Portugal gon& 
Ne'er ask the hour — what is it to us 
How Time deals out his treasures ? 
The golden moments lent us thus 
Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. 
If counting them over vrnfA add to their blisses, 

I 'd number each glorious second ; 
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses, 
Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd. 
Then fill the cup — what is it to us 
How Time his circle measures ? 
The fairy hours we call up thus 
Obey no wand but Pleasure's ! 

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours, 

Till Care, one summer's morning, 
Set up among his smiling flowers 

A dial, by way of warning. 
But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun, 

As long as its light was glowing, 
Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on, 
And how fast that light was going. 
So fill the cup — what is it to us 

How Time his circle measures ? 
The fairy hours we call up thus 

Obey no wand but Pleasure's. 



1 Tous les Habitans de Mercure sunt vifs. — Pluralite dcs 
Mondes. 

2 La Terre pourra ctre pour Venus l'etoile d-j berger et 
la mere dcs amours, comme Venus Test pour nous. — lb. 



SAIL ON, SAIL ON 
Aip— The Humming of the Ban. 
Sail off, sail on, thou fearless bark — 

W] ; rever blows the welcome wind, 
It cw° iio-t lead to scenes more dark, 
K >re sad, than those we leave behind 



344 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Each wave that passes seems to say, 
" Though death beneath our smile may be, 

Less cold we are, less false than they 

Whose smiling v/reck'd thy hopes and thee." 

Sail on. sail on — through endless space — 

Through calm — through tempest — stop no more : 
The stormiest sea 's a resting-place 

To him who leaves such hearts on shore. 
Or — if some desert land we meet, 

Where never yet false-hearted men 
Profaned a world that else were sweet — > 

Then rest thee, bark, but not till then. 



THE PARALLEL. 

Air— I would rather than Ireland. 
Yes, .sad one of Sion,' — if closely resembling, 

In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heart — 
If drinking, deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling" 

Could make us thy children, our parent thou art. 

Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken, 
And fallen from her head is the once royal crown ; 

In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, 
And " while it is day yet, her sun hath gone 
down." 2 

Like thine doth the exile, 'mid dreams of returning, 
Die far from the home it were life to behold ; 

Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, 
Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old! 

Ah, well may we call her, like thee, " the Forsaken," 3 
Her boldest are vanquish'd, her proudest are slaves; 

And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they 
waken, 
Have breathings as sad as the wind over graves ! 

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance — yet came there the 
morrow, 
That shines out at last on the longest dark night, 
When the sceptre that smote thee with slavery and 
sorrcvv 
Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight. 

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden 
City 4 

Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her ownlips, 
And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, 

The howl in her halls and the cry from her ships. 

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came 
over 

Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, 
And — a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover — 5 

The Lady of Kingdoms 6 lay low in the dust. 



1 These verses were written after the perusal of a tn itisc 
by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irisb were 
originally Jews. 

2 "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day." — Jer. 
xv. 9. 

3 " Thou shall no more be termed Forsaken. "— fsaiah, 
Ixii. 4. 

4 " How hath the oppressor ceased ! the Golden City 
eeased." — Isaiah, .\iv. 4. 

5 " Thy pomp is brought down to the grav — and the 
«roims cover thee." — Isaiah, xiv. 11. 

6 " Thou shaltno more be called the Lady of Ki.tadoms." 
jaiah, xh'ii. 5. 



DRINK OF THIS CUP. 

Air— Paddy ORafferty. 
Drink of this cup — you '11 find there 's a spell in 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality- 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 
Would you forget the dark world we are in, 

Only taste of the bubble that gleams on the top 
of it; 
But would you rise above earth, till akin 

To immortals themselves, you must drain every 
drop of it. 
Send round the cup — for oh ! there's a spell in 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 

Never was philtre form'd with such power 

To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing ! 
Its magic began, when, in Autumn's rich hour, 

As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. 
There, having, by Nature's enchantment been fill'd 

With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest 
weather, 
This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd, 

To enliven such hearts as are here brought to- 
gether ! 
Then drink of the cup — you '11 find there 's a spell in 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 

And though, perhaps — but breathe it to no one- 
Like cauldrons the witch brews at midnight so 
awful, 

In secret this philtre w r as first taught to flow on, 
Yet — 't is n't less potent for being unlawful. 

What though it may taste of the smoke of that flamfl 
Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden — 

Fill up — there's a fire in some hearts I could name, 
Which may work to its charm, though now law 
less and hidden. 

So drink of the cup — for oh ! there 's a spell in 
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — 

Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality 



THE FORTUNE-TELLER. 

Air — Open the Door softly. 

Down in the valley come meet me to-night, 
And I'll tell you your fortune truly 

As ever 't was told, by the new moon's light, 
To young maidens shining as newly. 

But, for the world, let no one be nigh, 
Lest haply the stars should deceive me; 

These secrets between you and me and the sky 
Should never go farther, believe me. 

If at that hour the heavens be not dim, 
My science shall call up before you 

A male apparition — the image of him 
Whose destiny 'tis to adore vou. 



. 



IRISH MELODIES 



345 



Then to the phantom be thou but kind, 
And round you so fondly he '11 hover, 

You '11 hardly, my dear, any difference find 
'Twixt him and a true living lover. 

Down at your feet, in the pale moon-light, 
He'll kneel, with a warmth of emotion — 

An ardour, of* which such an innocent sprite 
You'd scarcely believe had a notion. 

What other thoughts and events may arise, 
As in Destiny's book I've not seen them, 

Must only be left to the stars and your eyes 
To settle, ere morning, between them. 



OH, YE DEAD. 

Air — Plough Tune. 

On ye dead ! oh, ye dead ! whom we know by the 

light you give 
From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move 
like men who live, 
Why leave ye thus your graves, 
In far off fields and waves, 
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, 
To haunt this spot where all 
Those eyes that wept your fall, 
And the hearts that bewail'd you, like your own, he 
dead ! 

It is true — it is true — we are shadows cold and wan ; 
It is true — it is true — all the friends we loved are gone. 

But, oh ! thus even in death, 

So sweet is still the breath 
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wan- 
der'd o'er, 

That, ere condemn' d we go 

To freeze 'mid HeclaV snow, 
We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once 



O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS. 2 
Air — The Little and the Great Mountain. 
Of all the fair months, that round the sun 
In light-link'd dance their circles run, 

Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me ! 
For still, when thy earliest beams arise, 



1 Paul Zeland mentions that there is a mountain in some 
part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died 
in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they 
meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to 
their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount He- 
cla, and disappear immediately. 

2 The particulars of the traditions respecting O'Donohue 
and his white horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account 
of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. 
For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is sup- 
posed to have been seen, on the morning of May-day, 
gliding over the lake on his favour'ne white horse, "to the 
60und of sweet, unearthly music, and preceded by groups 
of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring- 
flowers in his path. 

Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the 
Lakes, it is said that there was a youn<j anr 1 beautiful girl, 
whose imagination was so impressed with th idea of this 
Visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, 
and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw 
herself into the lake. 

2 X 



That youth who beneath the blue lake lies. 
Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me. 

Of all the smooth lakes, where daylight leaves 
His lingering smile on golden eves, 

Fair lake, fair lake, thou 'rt dear to me ; 
For when the last April sun grows dim, 
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him 

Who dwells, who dwells, bright lake, in thee 

Of all the proud steeds that ever bore 
Young plumed chiefs on sea or shore, 

White steed, white steed, most joy to thee, 
Who still, when the first young glance of spring, 
From under that glorious lake dost bring, 

Proud steed, proud steed, my love to me. 

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, 
When newly launch'd, thy long mane 3 curls 

Fair steed, fair steed, as white and free ; 
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowetsf, 
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, 

Fair steed, around my love and thee. 

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, 
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, 

Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, 
Which under the next May-evening's light, 
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, 

Dear love, dear love, I '11 die for thee. 



ECHO. 

Air— The Wren. 
How sweet the answer Echo mais.es 

To Music at night, 
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, 
And for away, o'er lawns and lakes, 

Goes answering light. 

Yet Love hath echoes truer far, 

And far more sweet, 
Than e'er, beneath the moon-light's star, 
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar, 

The songs repeat. 

'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere, 

And only then, — 
The sigh that 's breathed for one to hea , 
Is by that one, that only dear, 

Breathed back again ' 



OH ! BANQUET NOT. 

Air — Planxty Irwine. 
Oh ! banquet not in those shining bowers 

Where youth resorts — but come to me, 
For mine 's a garden of faded flowers, 

More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. 
And there we shall have our feast of tears—- 

And many a cup in silence pour — 
Our guests, the shades of former years — 

Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more. 



3 The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which cevna 
on a windy day, crested with foam, "O'Donohue s waiw 
I horses." 



546 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



There, while the myrtle's withering boughs 

Their lifeless leaves around us shed, 
We '11 brim the bowl to broken vows, 

To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. 
Or, as some blighted laurel waves 

Its branches o'er the dreary spot, 
We '11 drink to those neglected graves 

Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot ! 



THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE. 

Air — The Market Stake. 
The dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking, 
The night's long hours still find me thinking 

Of thee, thee, only thee. 
When friends are met, and goblets crown'd, 
And smiles are near that once enchanted, 
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round, 
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted 
By thee, thee, only thee. 

Whatever in fame's high path could waken 
My spirit once, is now forsaken 
For thee, thee, only thee. 
Like shores, by which some headlong bark 

To the ocean hurries — resting never — 
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark, 
I know not, heed not, hastening ever 
To thee, thee, only thee. 

I have not a joy but of thy bringing, 

And pain itself seems sweet, when springing 

From thee, thee, only thee. 
Like spells that nought on earth can break, 

Till lips that know the charm have spoken, 
This heart, howe'er the world may wake 
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken 
By thee, thee, only thee 



SILYLL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT? 

Air — Macfarlane's Lamentation. 
Shall the Harp then be silent when he, who first 
gave 
To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes ? 
Shall a minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave, 
Where the first, where the last of her patriots lies ?' 

No — faint though the death-song may fall from his 
lips, 
Though his harp, like his soul, may with shadows 
be cross'd, 
Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse, 
And proclaim to the world what a star hath been 
lost !'* 

What a union of all the affections and powers, 
By which life is exalted, embellish'd, refined, 

Was embraced in that spirit — whose centre was ours, 
While its mighty circumference circled mankind. 

1 The celebrated Irish orator and patriot, Grattan. — 
Editor. 

*i It is only these two first verses, that are either fitted or 
intended to be sung. 



Oh, who that loves Erin — or who that can see, 
Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sua 
lime — 

Like a pyramid raised in the desert — where he 
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time !-— 

That one lucid interval snatch'd from the gloom 
And the madness of ages, when, fill'd with his soul, 

A nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom, 
And, for one sacred instant, touch'd liberty's goal \ 

Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drank at the 
source 
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, 
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the 
force, 
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown. 

An eloquence, rich — wheresoever it wave 

Wander'dfree and triumphant — with thoughts that 
shone through 

As clear as the brook's " stone of lustre," and gave, 
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. 

Who, that ever approach'd him, when, free from the 
crowd, 
In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 
'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which 
bow'd, 
As if each brought a new civic crown for his head- 
That home, where — like him who, as fable hath told,' 
Put the rays from his brow, that his child might 
come near — 
Every glory forgot, the most wise of the old 
Became all that the simplest and youngest hold dear. 

Is there one who has thus, through his orbit of life, 
But at distance observed him — through glory 
through blame, 

In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, 
Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same. 

Such a union of all that enriches life's hour, 
Of the sweetness we love and the greatness we 
praise, 

As that type of simplicity blended with power, 
A child with a thunderbolt, only portrays. — 

Oh no — not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns, 
Deep, deep, o'er the grave where such glory is 
shrined — 

O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urna 
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind ! 



OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. 

Air — Planxty Sudley. 
Oh, the sight entrancing, 
When morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files, array'd • 

With helm and blade, 
And plumes in the gay wind dancing ! 
When hearts are all high beating, 
And the trumpet's voice repeating 



1 Apollo, in his interview with Phaeton, as described by 
Ovid: — " Deposuit radios propiusque accederejussit. 



IRISH MELODIES. 



347 



That song whose breath 

May lead to death, 
But never to retreating ! 
Oh, the sight entrancing, 
When morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files, array'd 

With helm and blade, 
And plumes in the gay wind dancing . 

Yet 't is not helm or feather— 
For ask yon despot whether 

His plumed bands 

Could bring such hands 
And hearts as ours together. 
Leave pomps to those who need 'em- 
Adorn but Man with freedom, 

And proud he braves 

The gaudiest slaves 
That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. 
The sword may pierce the beaver, 
Stone walls in time may sever ; 

'T is heart alone, 

Worth steel and stone, 
That keeps men free for ever ! 
Oil, that sight entrancing, 
When morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files, array'd 

With helm and blade, 
And in Freedom's cause advancing ! 



NO. IX. 



SWEET INNISF ALLEN. 
Air — The Captivating Youth. 
Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, 

May calm and sunshine long be thine . 
How fair thou art let others tell, 
While but to feel how fair is mine ! 

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, 
And long may light around thee smile, 

As soft as on that evening fell 
When first I saw thy fairy isle ! 

Thou wert too lovely then for one 
Who had to turn to paths of care — 

Who had through vulgar crowds to run, 
And leave thee bright and silent there : 

No more along thy shores to come, 
But on the world's dim ocean tost, 

Dream of thee sometimes as a home 
Of sunshine he had seen and lost ! 

Far better in thy Weeping hours 
To part from thee as I do now, 

When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, 
Like Sorrow's veil on Beauty's brow 

For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, 
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, 

But, in thy shadows, seem'st a place 
Where wearv man might hope to rest — 



Might hope to rest, and find in thee 
A gloom like Eden's, on the day 

He left its shade, when every tree, 

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way ! 

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle ! 

And still the lovelier for thy tears — 
For though but rare thy sunny smile, 

'T is heaven's own glance, when it appears 

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, 
But, when indeed they come, divine— 

The steadiest light the sun e'er threw 
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine ! 



'T WAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS. 

Air — The song of the Woods. 
'T was one of those dreams that by music are brought, 
Like a light summer haze, o'er the poet's warm 

thought — ■ 
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, 
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone. 

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those 
To which he had sung Erin's bondage and woes, 
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er 
From Dinis' green isle to Glena's wooded shore. 

He listen' d — while high o'er the eagle's rude nest, 
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest ; 
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain 

quire, 
As if loth to let song so enchanting expire. 

It seem'd as if every sweet note that died here 
Was again brought to life in some airier sphere, 
Some heaven in those hills where the soul of the strain 3 
That had ceased upon earth, was awaking again ! 

Oh forgive if, while listening to music, whose breath 
Seem'd to circle his name with a charm against death, 
He should feel a proud spirit within him proclaim— 
"Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame : 

" Even so, though thy memory should now die away 
'T will be caught up again in some happier day, 
And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, 
Through the answering future, thy name and thj 
song !" 



FAIREST ! PUT ON AWHILE. 

Air — Cummilum. 
Fairest ! put on awhile 

These pinions of light I bring thee, 
And o'er thy own green isle 

In fancy let me wing thee. 
Never did Ariel's plume, 

At golden sunset, hover 
O'er such scenes of bloom 

As I fhall waft thee over. 



Fields, where the Spring delays, 
And fearlessly meets the ardour, 

Of the warm Summer's gaze, 
With but her tears to guard her 



348 



MOORE'b WORKS. 



Rocks, through myrtle boughs, 

In grace majestic frowning — 
Like some warrior's brows, 

That Love hath just been crowning. 

Islets so freshly fair 

That never hath bird come nigh them, 
But, from his course through air, 

Hath been won downward by them — ' 
Types, sweet maid, of thee, 

Whose look, whose blush inviting, 
Never did Love yet see 

From heaven, without alighting. 

Lakes where the pearl lies hid, 2 

And caves where the diamond 's sleeping, 
Bright as the gems that lid 

Of thine lets fall in weeping. 
Glens, 3 where Ocean comes, 

To 'scape the wild wind's rancour, 
And harbours, worthiest homes 

Where Freedom's sails could anchor. 

Then if, while scenes so grand, 

So beautiful, shine before thee, 
Pride for thy own dear land 

Should haply be stealing o'er thee, 
Oh, let grief come first, 

O'er pride itself victorious — 
To think how man hath curst 

What Heaven had made so glorious ! 



QUICK ! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND;. 

Air — Paddy Snap. 
Quick ! we have but a second, 

Fill round the cup, while you may, 
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd, 

And we must away, away ! 
Grasp the pleasure that 's flying, 

For oh ! not Orpheus' strain 
Could keep sweet hours from dying, 
Or charm them to life again. 
Then quick ! we have but a second, 

Fill round, fill round, while you may ; 
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd, 
And we must away, away ! 

See the glass, how its flushes, 

Like some young Hebe's lip, 
And half meets thine, and blushes 

That thou shouldst delay to sip. 
Shame, oh shame unto thee, 

If ever thou seest the day, 



1 In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of 
Forth) Dr. Keating says, " there is a certain attractive virtue 
in the soil, which draws down all the birds that attempt to 
fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock." 

ii " Nennius, a British writer of the 9th century, mentions 
the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, 
hung them behind their ears, and this we find confirmed by 
a present made .v. c. 1094, by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to 
Anaelm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable 
quantity of Irish pearls." — O'Halloran. 

3 Glengariff. 



When a cup or a lip shall woo thee, 
And turn untouch'd away ! 

Then, quick ! we have but a second, 

Fill round, fill round, while you may j 
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd, 
And we must away, away ! 



AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS 

Air — Unknown 
And doth not a meeting like this make amends 

For all the long years I' ve been wandering away t 
To see thus around me my youth's early friends, 

As smiling and kind as in that happy day! 
Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine 

The snow-fall of time may be stealing — what then^ 
Like Alps in the sun-set, thus lighted by wine, 

We '11 wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again. 

What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart, 

In gazing on those we 've been lost to so long ! 
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part 

Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng 
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, 

When held to the flame will steal out on the sight 
So many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced, 

The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light. 

And thus, in Memory's bark we shall glide 

To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew — 
Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide, 

The wreck of full many a hope shining through— 
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers, 

That once made a garden of all the gay shore, 
Deceived for a moment, we '11 think them still ours, 

And breathe the fresh air of Life's morning once 
more. 1 

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, 

Is all we can have of the few we hold dear; 
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost, 

For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. 
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone, 

To meet in some world of more permanent bliss ; 
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on, 

Is all we enjoy of each other in this. 2 

But come — the more rare such delights to the heart, 
The more we should welcome, and bless them the 
more: 
They 're ours when we me«t — they are lost when we 
part, 
Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 't is 
o'er. 



1 Jours charmans, qnand je songe a vos heureux instans. 
Je pense remonter le fleuve de mes ans; 

Et mon coeur enchante sur la rive fleurie, 
Respire encore Pair pur du matin de la vie. 

2 The same thought has been happily expressed by my 
friend, Mr. Washington Frving, in his Dracrbridge Hall, 
vol. i. p. 213. The pleasure which I feel in railing this gen- 
tleman my friend, is enhanced by the reflection that he is 
too good- an American to have admitted me so readily to 
such a distinction, if he had not known that rny feelings to- 
wards the great and free country that gave him birth have 
long been such as every real lover of the liberty and happi- 
ness of the human race must entertain. 



IRISH MELODIES. 



349 



^hus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink, 
Let sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, throug 
pain, 

That fast as a feeling but touches one link, 
Her magic shall send it direct through the chain. 



THE SPRITE. 

Air — The Mountain Sprite. 
In yonder valley there dwelt, alone, 
A youth, whose life all had calmly flown, 
Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night, 
He was haunted and watch'd by a Mountain Sprite 

As he, by moonlight, went wandering o'er 

The golden sands of that island shore, 

A foot-print sparkled before his sight, 

'T was the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite. 

Beside a fountain, one sunny day, 

As, looking down on the stream, he lay, 

Behind him stole two eyes of light, 

And he saw in the clear wave the Mountain Sprite 

He turn'd — but lo, like a startled bird, 

The Spirit fled — and he only heard 

Sweet music, such as marks the flight 

Of a journeying star, from the Mountain Sprite. 

One night, pursued by that dazzling look, 
The youth, bewilder' d, his pencil took, 
And, guided only by memory's light, 
Drew the fairy form of the Mountain Sprite, 

" Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried, 
A gentle voice, whispering by his side, 
" Now turn and see," — here the youth's delight 
Seal'd the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite 

" Of all the Spirits of land and sea," 
Fxclaim'd he then, "there is none like thee ; 
And oft, oh oft, may thy shape alight 
In this lonely arbour, sweet Mountain Sprite." 



AS VANQUISH'D ERIN. 

Air — The Boyne Water, 
As vanquish'd Erin wept beside 

The Boyne's ill-fated river, 
She saw where Discord, in the tide, 

Had dropp'd his loaded quiver. 

Lie hid," she cried, "ye venom'd darts, 

Where mortal eye may shun you ; 
Lie hid — for oh ! the stain of hearts 

That bled for me is on you." 

But vain her wish, her weeping vain— 

As Time too well hath taught her : 
Each year the fiend returns again, 

And dives into that water : 
And brings triumphant, from beneath, 

His shafts of desolation, 
And sends them, wing'd with worse than death, 

Throughout her maddening nation. 



Alas for her who sits and mourns, 

Even now beside that river — 
Unwearied still the fiend returns, 

And stored is still his quiver. 
"When will this end ? ye Powers of Good !' 

She weeping asks for ever ; 
But only hears, from out that flood, 

The demon answer, "Never !" 



DESMOND'S SONG. 1 

Air — Unknown. 2 
By the Feal's wave benighted, 

Not a star in the skies, 
To thy door by Love lighted, 

I first saw those eyes. 
Some voice whisper'd o'er me, 

As the threshold I cross'd, 
There was ruin before me, 

If I loved, I was lost. 

Love came, and brought sorrow 

Too soon in his train; 
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow 

'T would be welcome again. 
Were misery's full measure 

Pour'd out to me now, 
I would drain it with pleasure, 

So the Hebe were thou. 

You who call it dishonour 

To bow to this flame, 
If you 've eyes, look but on her, 

And blush while you blame. 
Hathfthe pearl less whiteness 

Because of its birth ? 
Hath the violet less brightness 

For growing near earth 1 

No — Man, for his glory, 

To history flies ; 
While Woman's bright story 

Is told in her eyes. 
While the monarch but traces 

Through mortals his line, 
Beauty, born of the Graces, 

Ranks next to divine ! 



THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART 
Air — Coolon Das. 
They know not my heart, who believe there car ue 
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee ; 



1 "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had acci- 
dentally been so engaged in the chace, that he was benight- 
ed near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey or 
Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cor- 
mac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly 
inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not 
subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alien- 
ated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indul- 
gence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of hia 
family."— Leland, vol. 2. 

2 This air has been already so successfully supplied with 
words by Mr. Bayly, that I should have left it untouched, 
if we could have spared so interesting a melody out of our 
collection 



350 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour, 
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower, 
I could harm what I love — as the sun's wanton ray 
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away ! 

No — beaming with light as those young features are, 
There 's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far : 
It is not that cheek — 't is the soul dawning clear 
Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty so 

dear — 
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair, 
Is look'd up to the more, because heaven is there ! 



I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE. 

Air— 1 wish I was on yonder Hill 
I wish I was by that dim lake, 1 
Where sinful souls their farewells take 
Of this vain world, and half-way lie 
In Death's cold shadow, ere they die. 
There, there, far from thee, 
Deceitful world, my home should be — 
Where, come what might of gloom and pain, 
False hope should ne'er deceive again ! 

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound 
Of unseen waters, falling round — 
The dry leaves quivering o'er my head, 
Like man, unquiet even when dead — 
These — ay — these should wean 
My soul from Life's deluding scene, 
And turn each thought, each wish I have, 
Like willows, downward towards the grave. 

As they who to their couch at night 
Would welcome sleep, first quench fhe light, 
So must the hopes that keep this breast 
Awake, be quench'd. ere it can rest. 
Cold, cold, my heart must grow, 
Unchanged by either joy or woe, 
Like freezing founts, where all that 's thrown 
Within their current turns to stone. 



SHE SUNG OF LOVE. 
Air — The Munster Man. 
She sung of love — while o'er her lyre 
The rosy rays of evening fell, 



1 These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt 
af superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst 
of these gloomy regions of Donnegall (says Dr. Campbell) 
lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this 
"abled and intermediate state. In the lake was several 
islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the 
Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted 
the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of peni- 
tents and pilgrims, from almost every country in Europe." 

" It was," as the same writer tells us, " one of the most 
dismal and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, 
ihrough deep glens and rugged mountains, frightful with 
impending rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western 
winds in dark caverns, peopled only with such fantastic 
beings as the mind, however gay, is from strange association 
wont to appropriate to such gloomy scenes. — Strictures on 
the Ecclesiaslisal and Literary History of Ireland. 



As if to feed with their soft fire 

The soul within that trembling shell. 

The same rich light hung o'er her cheek, 
And play'd around those lips that sung 

And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, 
If love could lend their leaves a tongue. 

i 

But soon the West no longer burn'd, 

Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew ; 
And, when to gaze again I turn'd, 

The minstrel's form seem'd fading too. 
As if her light and heaven's were one, 

The glory all had left that frame ; 
And from her glimmering lips the tone, 

As from a parting spirit, came. 1 

Who ever loved, but had the thought 

That he and all he loved must part ? 
Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught 

That fading image to my heart — 
And cried, " Oh Love ! is this thy doom? 

Oh light of youth's resplendent day ! 
Must ye then lose your golden bloom, 

And thus, like sunshine, die away ?" 



SING— SING— MUSIC WAS GIVEN. 

Air — The Humours of BaUamaguiry; or, the Ola 
Langolee, 
Sing — sing — Music was given 
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving ; 

Souls here, like planets in heaven, 
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. 
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks, 

But love from the lips his true archery wings ; 
And she who but feathers the dart when she speaks, 
At once sends it home to the heart when she sings. 
Then sing — sing — Music was given 
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving ; 

Souls here, like planets in heaven, 
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. 

When Love, rock'd by his mother, 
Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him 

"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other 
Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him.'* 
Dreaming of music he slumber'd the while, 

Till faint from his lips a soft melody broke, 
And Venus, enchanted, look'd on with a smile, 
While Love to his own sweet singing awoke ! 
Then sing — sing — Music was given 
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving, 

Souls here, like planets in heaven, 
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. 



1 The thought here was suggested by some beautiful lines 
in Mr. Rogers's Poem of Human JLife, beginning: 

" Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows 
Less and less earthly." 

I would quote the entire passage, but that I fear to put my 
own humble imitation of it out of countenance. 



NATIONAL AIRS. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



Ir is Cicero, I believe, who says "nalura ad mo- 
dos ducimur ;" and the abundance of wild indigenous 
airs, which almost every country except England 
possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his asser- 
tion. The lovers of this simple but interesting kind 
of music are here presented with the first number of 
a collection, which I trust their contributions will 
enable us to continue. A pretty air without words 
resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which 
are described as wandering, in search of the remain- 
der of themselves, through the w r orld. To supply 
this other half, by uniting with congenial words the 
many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none, 
or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of 
their hearers, is the object and ambition of the pre- 
sent work. Neither is it our intention to confine 
ourselves to what are strictly called National Melo- 
dies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and 
Deautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a 
worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an estray 
swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its 
song. 

* • * * * * 

T.M. 



NATIONAL AIRS. 

No. I. 



A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP. 1 

Spanish Air. 
u A temple to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted, 

"I '11 build in this garden — the thought is divine !" 
Her temple was built, and she now only wanted 

An image of friendship to place on the shrine. 
She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her 

A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent, 
But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer 

Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. 

* Oh ! never," she cried, " could I think of enshrining 

An image whose looks are so joyless and dim ! 
But yon little god upon roses reclining, 

We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him." 
So the bargain was struck ; with the little god laden 

She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove : 
" Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first 
maiden 

Who came but for Friendship, and took away Love." 



1 The thought is taken from a song by Le Prieur called 
K Tie Statue de 1'Amitie." 



FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER 
Portuguese Air. 
Flow on, thou shining river ; 
But, ere thou reach the sea, 
Seek Ella's bower, and give her 
The wreaths I fling o'er thee. 
And tell her thus, if she '11 be mine, 
The current of our lives shall be, 
With joys along their course to shine, 
Like those sweet flowers on thee. 

But if, in wandering thither, 

Thou find'st she mocks my prayer, 
Then leave those wreaths to wither 
Upon the cold bank there. 
And tell her — thus, when youth is o'er, 

Her lone and loveless charms shall be 
Thrown by upon life's weedy shore, 
Like those sweet flowers from thee. 



ALL THAT 'S BRIGHT MUST FADE. 

Indian Air. 
All that 's bright must fade,— 

The brightest still the fleetest ; 
All that 's sweet was made 

But to be lost when sweetest. 
Stars that shine and fall ; — 

The flower that drops in springing;— 
These, alas ! are types of all 

To which our hearts are clinging 
All that 's bright must fade, — 

The brightest still the fleetest ; 
All that 's sweet was made 

But to be lost when sweetest ! 

Who would seek or prize 

Delights that end in aching ? 
Who would trust to ties 

That every hour are breaking ? 
Better far to be 

In utter darkness lying, 
Than be blest with light, and see 

That light for ever flying. 
All that 's bright must fade,— 

The brightest still the fleetest ; 
All that 's sweet was made 

But to be lost when sweetest ! 



SO WARMLY WE MET. 

Hungarian Air. 
So warmly we met and so fondly we parted, 

That which was the sweeter even I could not teU~ 
That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted, 

Oi that tear of passion which bless'd our farewel. 



352 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



To meet was a heaven, and to part thus another, — 
Our joy ana our sorrow seem'd rivals in bliss; 

Oh ! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each other 
In smiles and in tears, than that moment to this. 

The first was like day-break — new, sudden, delicious, 

The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet — 
The last was that farewell of daylight, more precious, 

More glowing and deep, as 't is nearer its set. 
Our meeting, though happy, was tinged by a sorrow 

To think that such happiness could not remain ; 
While our parting, though sad, gave a hope that to- 
morrow 

Would bring back the blest hour of meeting again. 



THOSE EVENING BELLS. 

Air — The Bells of St. Peter sburgh. 
Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
How many a tale their music tells, 
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, 
When last 1 heard their soothing chime ! 

Those joyous hours are past away ! 
And many a heart that then was gay, 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells ! 

And so 't will be when I am gone ; 
That tuneful peal will still ring on, 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells ! 



SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES. 

Portuguese Air. 
'Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee, 

Which now so sweetly thy heart employ ; 
Should the cold world come to wake thee 

From all thy visions of youth and joy ; 
Should the gay friends for whom thou wouldst banish 

Him who once thought thy young heart his own, 
All like spring birds, falsely vanish, 

And leave thy winter unheeded and lone ; — 

Oh ! 't is then he thou hast slighted 

Would come to cheer thee, when all seem'd o'er ; 
Then the truant, lost and blighted, 

Would to his bosom be taken once more. 
Like that dear bird we both can remember, 

Who left us while summer shone round, 
But, when chill'd by bleak December, 

Upon our threshold a welcome still found. 



REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY. 

Italian Air. 
Reason, Folly and Beauty, they say, 
Went on a pari y of pleasure one day : 

Folly play'd 

Arour.d the maid, 



1 Tne metre tf the words is here necessarily sacrificed to 
fee air. 



The bell of his cap rung merrily out; 

While Reason took 

To his sermon-book — 
Oh ! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt 

Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage, 
Turn'd for a moment to Reason's dull page, 

Till Folly said, 

" Look here, sweet maid !" — 
The sight of his cap brought her back to herself, 

While Reason read 

His leaves of lead, 
With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf! 

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap ; 
Had he that on, he her heart might entrap — 

" There it is," . 

Quoth Folly, "old quiz!" 
But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore, 
That Beauty now liked him still less than before ; 

While Folly took 

Old Reason's book, 
And twisted the leaves in a cap of such Ton, 

That Beauty vow'd 

(Though not aloud,) 
She liked him still better in that than his own ! 



FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE 

Sicilian Air. 
Fare thee well, thou lovely one ! 

Lovely still, but dear no more; 
Once his soul of truth is gone, 

Love's sweet lite is o'er. 
Thy words, whate'er their flattering spell, 

Could scarce have thus deceived ; 
But eyes that acted truth so well 

Were sure to be believed. 
Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one ! 

Lovely still, but dear no more ; 
Once his soul of truth is gone, 

Love's sweet life is o'er. 

Yet those eyes look constant still, 

True as stars they keep their light ; 
Still those cheeks their pledge fulfil 

Of blushing always bright. 
'T is only on thy changeful heart 

The blame of falsehood lies ; 
Love lives in every other part, 

But there, alas ! he dies. 
Then fare thee well, thou lovely one! 

Lovely still, but dear no more ; 
Once his soul of truth is gone, 

Love's sweet life is o'er. 



DOST THOU REMEMBER. 
Portuguese Air. 
Dost thou remember that place so lonely 
A place for lovers and lovers only, 

Where first I told thee all my secret sighs ? 
When as the moon-beam, that trembled o'er tnee, 
Illumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee, 
And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes 



NATIONAL AIRS 



353 



Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart, 
Love bound us — never, never more to part ! 

'And when I call'd thee by names the dearest 
That love could fancy, the fondest, nearest — 

"My life, my only life !" among the rest; 
In those sweet accents that still enthral me, 
Thou saidst, " Ah ! wherefore thy life thus call me ? 

Thy soul, thy soul 's the name that I love best ; 
For life soon passes, but how blest to be 
That soul which never, never parts from thee !" 



OH! COME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT 
SETS. 
Venetian Air. 
On ! come to me when daylight se f s; 
• Sweet ! then come to me, 
fr When smoothly go our gondolets 
O'er the moonlight sea. 
When Mirth 's awake, and Love begins, 

Beneath that glancing ray, 
With sound of flutes and mandolins, 

To steal young hearts away. 
Oh ! come to me when daylight sets ; 

Sweet ! then come to me, 
When smoothly go our gondolets 
O'er the moonlight sea. 

Oh ! then 's the hour for those who love, 

Sweet ! like thee and me ; 
When all 's so calm below, above, 

In heaven and o'er the sea. 
When maidens sing sweet barcarolles, 9 

And Echo sings again 
So sweet, that all with ears and souls 

Should love and listen then. 
So, come to me when daylight sets ; 

Sweet ! then come to me, 
When smoothly go our gondolets 

O'er the moonlight sea. 



OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT 

Scotch Air. 
Oft, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Oi other days around me ; 
The smiles, the tears, 
Of boyhood's years, 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone, 
Now dimm'd and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 



When I remember all 

The friends, so link'd together 
I've seen around me fall, 

Like leaves in wintry weather; 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garland 's dead, 
And all but he departed! 
Thus, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 



1 The thought in this verse is borrowed from the original 
Portuguese words. 

2 Barcarolles, sorte de chansons en langue Venitienne, 
que chantent les gondoliers a Venise.- -Rousseau, Diction- 
naire de JMusique. 

2 Y 



HARK! THE VESPER PIYMN IS STEALING 

Russian Air. 
Hark ! the vesper hymn is stealing 

O'er the waters, soft and clear ; 
Nearer yet and nearer pealing, 

Jubilate, Amen. 
Farther now, now farther stealing, 
Soft it fades upon the ear, 
Jubilate, Amen. 

Now, like moonlight's waves retreating 

To the shore, it dies along; 
Now, like angry surges meeting, 
Breaks the mingled tide of song. 
Jubilate, Amen. 
Hush ! again, like waves, retreating 
To the shore, it dies along, 
Jubilate, Amen. 



No. II. 

LOVE AND HOPE. 

Swiss air. 
At morn, beside yon summer sea, 

Young Hope and Love reclined ; 
But scarce had noon-tide come, when he 
Into his bark leap'd smilingly, 

And left poor Hope behind. 

"I go," said Love, "to sail awhile 

Across this sunny main ;" 
And then so sweet his parting smile, 
That Hope, who never dream'd of guile. 

Believed he 'd come again. 

She linger'd there till evening's beam 

Along the waters Jay, 
And o'er the sands, in thoughtful dream, 
Oft traced his name, which still the stream 

As often wash'd away. 

At length a sail appears in sight, 
And toward the maiden moves 
'T is Wealth that comes, and gay and bright, 
His golden bark reflects the light, 
But ah ! it is not Love's 



MM 



Another sail — 'twas Friendship show'd 

Her night-lamp o'er the sea ; 
And calm the light that lamp bestow'd • 
But Love had lights that warmer glow'd, 

And where, alas ! was he ? 

Now fast around the sea and shore 
Night threw her darkling chain, 
The sunny sails were seen no more, 
Hope's morning dreams of bliss were o'er- 
Love never came again ! 



THERE COMES A TIME. 

German Air. 
There comes a time, a dreary time, 

To him whose heart hath flown 
O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime, 

And made each flower its own. 
'T is when his soul must first renounce 

Those dreams so bright, so fond ; 
Oh ! then 's the time to die at once, 

For life has nought beyond. 
There comes a time, etc. 

When sets the sun on Afric's shore, 

That instant all is night ; 
And so should life at once be o'er, 

When Love withdraws his light — 
Nor, like our northern day, gleam on 

Through twilight's dim delay 
The cold remains of lustre gone, 

Of fire long pass'd away. 

Oh ! there comes a time, etc. 



MY HARP HAS ONE UNCHANGING 
THEME. 

Swedish Air. 
My harp has one unchanging theme, 

One strain that still comes o'er 
Its languid chord, as 't were a dream 

Of joy that 's now no more. 
In vain I try, with livelier air, 

To wake the breathing string; 
That voice of other times is there, 

And saddens all I sing. 

Breathe on, breathe on, thou languid strain, 

Henceforth be all my own ; 
Though thou art oft so full of pain, 

Few hearts can bear thy tone. 
Yet oft thou' it sweet, as if the sigh, 

The breath that Pleasure's wings 
Gave out, when last they wanton' d by, 

Were still upon thy strings. 



OH! NO— NOT E'EN WHEN FIRST WE 
LOVED. 

Cashmerian Air. 

Oh ! no — not e'en when first we loved, 
Wert thou as dear as now thou art ; 



Thy beauty then my senses moved, 
But now thy virtues bind my heart. 

What was but Passion's sigh before, 
Has since been turn'd to Reason's vow 

And, though I then might love thee more 
Trust me, I love thee better now ! 



Although my heart in earlier youth 

Might kindle with more wild desire, 
Believe me, it has gain'd in truth 

Much more than it has lost in fire. 
The flame now warms my inmost core, 

That then but sparkled o'er my brow; 
And, though I seem'd to love thee more, 

Yet, oh ! I love thee better cow. 



PEACE BE AROUND THEE. 

Scotch Air. 
Peace ^e ground thee, wherever thou rovest; 

May life be for thee one summer's day, 
And all that thou wishest, and all that thou lovest 

Come smiling around thy sunny way ! 
If sorrow e'er this calm should break, 

May even thy tears pass off so lightly ; 
Like spring-showers, they'll only make 

The smiles that follow shine more brightly. 

May Time, who sheds his blight o'er all, 

And daily dooms some joy to death, 
O'er thee let years so gently fall, 

They shall not crush one flower beneath ! 
As half in shade and half in sun, 

This world along its path advances, 
May that side the sun 's upon 

Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances I 



COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS. 

French Air. 
While I touch the string. 

Wreath my brows with laurel, 
For the tale I sing, 

Has, for once, a moral. 
Common Sense, one night, 

Though not used to gambols, 
Went out by moonlight, 

With Genius on his rambles. 

While I touch the string, etc. 

Common Sense went on, 

Many wise things saying, 
While the light that shone 

Soon set Genius straying. 
One his eye ne'er raised 

From the path before him, 
'T other idly gazed 
On each night-cloud o'er him. 

While I touch the string, eip 

So they came, at last, 

To a shady river ; 
Common Sense soon pass'd, 

Safe, as he doth ever ; 
While the boy, whose look 

Was in heaven that minute, 



NATIONAL AIRS. 355 


Never saw the brook, 


When the dance and feast are done, 


But tumbled headlong in it ! 


Arm in arm as home we stray, 


While I touch the string, etc. 


How sweet to see the dawning sun 




O'er her cheeks' warm blushes play 


How the wise one smiled, 


Then, then the farewell kiss, 


When sate o'er the torrent, 


And words whose parting tone 


At that youth, so wild, 


Lingers still in dreams of bliss, 


Dripping from the current ! 


That haunt young hearts alone. 


Sense went home to bed ; 




Genius, left to shiver 






On the bank, 't is said, 
Died of that cold river ! 


LOVE IS A HUNTER-BOY 


While I touch the string, etc. 


Languedocian Air. 




Love is a hunter-boy, 




Who makes young hearts his prey, 


THEN, FARE THEE WELL! 


And in his nets of joy 

Ensnares them night and day. 


Old E?iglish Air. 


In vain conceal'd they lie — 


Then, fare thee well ! my own dear love, 


Love tracks them every where ; 


This world has now for us 


In vain aloft they fly — 


No greater grief, no pain above 


Love shoots them, flying there. 


The pain of parting thus, dear love! the pain of part- 




ing thus ! 


But 't is his joy most sweet, 




At early dawn to trace 


Had we but known, since first we met, 


The print of Beauty's feet, 


Some few short hours of bliss, 


And give the trembler chase. 


We might, in numbering them, forget 


And most he loves through snow 


The deep, deep pain of this, dear love ! the deep, deep 


To trace those footsteps fair, 


pain of this ! 


For then the boy doth know 


But, no, alas ! we've never seen 


None track d before him there. 


One glimpse of pleasure's ray, 
But still there came some cloud between, 






And chased it all away, dear love ! and chased it all 


COME, CHASE THAT STARTING TEAK ' 


away ! 


AWAY. 


Yet, e'en couid those sad moments last, 


French Air. 


Far dearer to my heart 


Come, chase that starting tear away, 


Were hours of grief, together past, 


Ere mine to meet it springs ; 


Than years of mirth apart, dear love ! than years of 


To-night, at least, to-night be gay, 


mirth apart ! 


Whate'er to-morrow brings ! 




Like sunset gleams, that linger late 


Farewell ! our hope was born in fears, 


When all is dark'ning fast, 


And nursed 'mid vain regrets ! 


Are hours like these we snatch from Fate— 


Like winter suns, it rose in tears, 


The brightest and the last. 


lake them in tears it sets, dear love ! like them in 


Then, chase that starting tear, etc. 


tears it sets ' 






To gild our dark'ning life, if Heaven 




But one bright hour allow, 


GAILY SOUNDS THE CASTANET. 


Oh ! think that one bright hour is given, 


, 


In all its splendour, now ! 


Maltese Air. 


Let 's live it out — then sink in night, 


Gaily sounds the Castanet, 


Like waves that from the shore 


Beating time to bounding feet, 


One minute swell — are touch'd with light 


When, after daylight's golden set, 


Then lost for evermore. 


Maids and youths by moonlight meet. 


Then, chase that starting tear, etc. 


Oh ! then, how sweet to move 
Through all that maze of mirth, 






Lighted by those eyes we love 


JOYS OF YOUTH, HOW FLEETING \ 


Beyond all eyes on earth. 


Portuguese Air. 


Then, the joyous banquet spread 


Whisp'rings, heard by wakeful maids, 


On the cool and fragrant ground, 


To whom the night-stars auide us — 


With night's bright eye-beams overhead, 


Stolen walks through moonlight shades 


And still brighter sparkling round. 


With those we love beside us. 


Oh ! then, how sweet to say 


Hearts beating, at meeting, — 


Into the loved one's ear, 


Tears starting, at parting ; 


Thoughts reserved through many a day 


Oh ! sweet youth, how soon it fades I 


To be thus whisper'd here. 


Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting 1 



i! 

356 MOORE'S WORKS. 


■- 


HEAR ME BUT ONCE. 


BRIGHT BE THY DREAMS ' 


French Air. 


Welch Air. 




Hear me but once, while o'er the grave, 


Bright be thy dreams — may all thy weeping 




In which our love lies cold and dead, 


Turn into smiles while thou art sleeping : 




I count each flatt'ring hope he gave, 


Those by death or seas removed, 




Of joys now lost and charms now fled. 


Fiends, who in thy spring-time knew thee, 




Who could have thought the smile he wore, 


All thou 'st ever prized or loved, 




. When first we met, would fade away? 


In dreams come smiling to thee ! 




Or that a chill would e'er come o'er 






Those eyes so bright through many a day ? 


There may the child, whose love lay deepest, 
Dearest of all, come while thou sleepest ; 
Still the same — no charm forgot — 
Nothing lost that life had given ■ 






No. III. 


Or, if changed, but changed to what 






Thou 'It find her yet in Heaven ! 




WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD. 








Svjedish Air. 


GO, THEN— 'TIS VAIN. 




When Love was a child, and went idling round 
'Mong flowers the whole summer's day, 


Sicilian Air. 




One morn in the valley a bower he found, 


Go, then — 't is vain to hover 




So sweet, it allured him to stay 


Thus round a hope that 's dead ! 
At length my dream is over, 




O'erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair 


'T was sweet — 't was false — 't is fled 




A fountain ran darkly beneath — 


Farewell ; since nought it moves thee, 




T was Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there ; 


Such truth as mine to see, — 




Love knew it, and jump'd at the wreath. 


Some one, who far less loves thee, 
Perhaps more bless'd will be. 




But Love didn't know — and at his weak years 






What urchin was likely to know ? — 


Farewell, sweet eyes, wdiose brightness 




That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears 


New life around me shed ! 




That fountain which murmur'd below. 


Farewell, false heart, whose lightness 
Now leaves me deatn instead . 




He caught at the wreath — but with too much haste, 


Go, now, those charms surrender 




As boys when impatient will do — 


To some new lover's sigh, 




It fell in those waters of briny taste, 


One who, though far less tender, 




And the flowers were all wet through. 


May be more bless'd than I. 




Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day, 






And, though it all sunny appears 






With Pleasure's own lustre, each leaf, they say, 


THE CRYSTAL HUNTERS. 




Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears. 


Swiss Air. 







O'er mountains bright with snow and light 
We Crystal Hunters speed along, 




SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT 


While grots and caves, and icy waves, 




TO-DAY? 


Each instant echo to our song ; 




Sicilian Air. 


And, when we meet with stores of gems, 




We grudge not kings their diaoems. 




Say what shall be our sport to-day? 


O'er mountains bright with snow and light, 




There 's nothing on earth, in sea, or air, 


We Crystal Hunters speed along. 




Too bright, too bold, too high, too gay, 


While grots and caves, and icy waves, 




For spirits like mine to dare ! 


Each instant echo to our song. 




'T is like the returning bloom 






Of those days, alas ! gone by, 


No lover half so fondly dreams 




When I loved each hour — I scarce knew whom, — 


Of sparkles from his lady's eyes, 




And was bless'd — I scarce knew why. 


As we of those refreshing gleams 
That tell where deep the crystal lies ; 




Ay, those were days when life had wings, 


Though, next to crystal, we too grant 




And flew — oh, flew so wild a height, 


That ladies' eyes may most enchant. 




That, like the lark which sunward springs, 


O'er mountains, etc. 




'T was giddy with too much light; 






And, though of some plumes bereft, 


Sometimes, when o'er the Alpine rose, 




With that sun, too, nearly set, 


The golden sunset leaves its ray, 




T 've enough of light and wing still left 


So like a gem the flow'ret glows, 




For a few gay soarings yet. 
P . 


We thither bend our headlong way ; 





NATIONAL AIRS. 



357 



And, though we find no treasure there, 
We bless the rose that shines so fair. 
O'er mountains, etc. 



ROW GENTLY HERE 

Venetian Air. 
Row gently here, my gondolier; so softly wake the 

tide, 
That not an ear on earth mav hear, but hers to whom 

we glide. 
Had Heaven but tongues to speak> as well as starry 

eyes to see, 
Oh ! think what tales 't would hive to tell of wand'ring 

youths like me ! 

Now res' thee here, my gondolier ; hush, hush, for 

up I go, 
To climb yon light balcony's height, while thou 

keep'st w r atch below. 
Ah! did we take for heaven above but half such 

pains as we 
Take day and night for woman's love, what angels 

we should be ! 



OH! DAYS OF YOUTH. 

French Air. 

Oh ! days of youth and joy, long clouded, 

Why thus for ever haunt my view ? 
When in the grave your light lay shrouded, 

Why did not Memory die there too ? 
Vainly doth Hope her strain now sing me, 

Whispering of joys that yet remain — 
No, no, never can this life bring me 

One joy that equal's youth's sweet pain. 

Dim lies the way to death before me, 

Cold winds of Time blow round my brow : 
Sunshine of youth that cnce fell o'er me, 

Where is your warmth, your glory now ? 
'T is not that then no pain could sting me — 

'T is not that now no joys remain ; 
Oh ! it is that life no more can bring me 

One joy so sweet as that worst pain. 



WHEN FIRST THAT SMILE. 

Venetian Air. 

When first that smile, like sunshine, bless'd my sight, 

Oh ! what a vision then came o'er me ! 
Long years of love, of calm and pure delight, 

Seem'd in that smile to pass before me. 
Ne'er did the peasant dream, ne'er dream of summer 
skies, 
Of golden fruit and harvests springing, 
With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes, 
And of the joy their light was bringing. 

Whore now are all those fondly promised hours ? 

Oh ! woman's faith is like her brightness, 
Fading as fast as rainbows or day-flowers, 

Or aught that 's known for grace and lightness. 



Short as the Persian's prayer, his prayer at close of 
day, 

Must be each vow of Love's repeating ; 
Quick let him worship Beauty's precious ray — 

Even while he kneels that ray is fleeting ! 



FEACE TO THE SLUMBERERS ! 

Catalonian Air. 

Peace to the slumberers ! 

They lie on the battle plain, 
With no shroud to cover them ; 

The dew and the summer rain 
Are all that weep over them. 

Vain was their bravery ! 

The fallen oak lies where it lay, 
Across the wintry river; 

But brave hearts, once swept away, 
Are gone, alas ! for ever. 

Woe to the conqueror! 

Our limbs shall lie as cold a? theirs 
Of whom his sword bereft us, 

Ere we forget the deep arrears 
Of vengeance they have left us ! 



WHEN THOU SHALT WANDER. 

Sicilian Air. 
When thou shalt wander by that sweet light 

We used to gaze on so many an eve, 
When love was new and hope was bright, 

Ere I could doubt or thou deceive — 
Oh ! then, remembering how swift went by 
Those hours of transport, even thou may'st sigU. 

Yes, proud one ! even thy heart may own 
That love like ours was far too sweet 

To be, like summer garments thrown aside 
When past the summer's heat ; 

And wish in vain to know again 

Such days, such nights, as bless'd thee then. 



WHO 'LL BUY MY LOVE-KNOTS ? 

Portuguese Air. 
Hymen late, his love-knots selling, 
Call'd at many a maiden's dwelling : 
None could doubt, who saw or knew them, 
Hymen's call was welcome to them. 

" Who '11 buy my love-knots ? 

Who '11 buy my love-knots ?" 
Soon as that sweet cry resounded, 
How his baskets were surrounded ! 

Maids who now first dream'd of trying 
These gay knots of Hymen's tying ; . 
Dames, who long had sat to watch him 
Passing by, but ne'er could catch him ;- 

"Who '11 buy my love-knots ? 

Who '11 buy my love-knots ?" 
All at that sweet cry assembled ; 
Some laugh'd, some blush'd, and some trembled 



358 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



u Here are knots," said Hymen, taking 
Some loose flowers, " of Love's own making ; 
Here are gold ones — you may trust 'em" — 
;Tnese, of course, found ready custom.) 

" Come buy my love-knots ! 

Come buy my love-knots ! 
Some are labell'd ' Knots to tie men' — 
4 Love the maker' — ' Bought of Hymen.' " 

^carce their bargains were completed, 
When the nymphs all cried, " We 're cheated ! 
See these flowers — they 're drooping sadly ; 
This gold-knot, too, ties but badly — ■ 

Who 'd buy such love-knots ? 

Who 'd buy such love-knots ? 
Even this tie, with Love's name round it— 
All a sham — he never bound it." 

Love, who saw the whole proceeding, 
Would have laugh'd, but for good-breeding ; 
While Old Hymen, who was used to 
Cries like that these dames gave loose to — 

" Take back our love-knots ! 

Take back our love-knots !" — 
Coolly said, " There 's no returning 
Wares on Hymen's hands — Good morning !" 



SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN. 

Sung at Rome, on Christmas Eve. 

See, the dawn from heaven is breaking o'er our sight, 

And Earth, from sin awaking, hails the sight ! 

See, those groups of Angels, winging from the realms 

above, 
On their sunny brows from Eden bringing wreaths 

of Hope and Love. 

Hark— their l^nnns of glory pealing through the air, 

To mortal ears revealing who lies there ! 

tn rhat dwelling, dark and lowly, sleeps the heavenly 

Son, 
He. whose home is in the skies, — the Holy One ! 



No. IV. 



NETS AND CAGES. 

Swedish air. 

Come, listen to my story, while 

Your needle's task you ply ; 
At what I sing some maids will smile, 

While some, perhaps, may sigh. 
Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames 

Such florid songs as ours, 
Yet Truth, sometimes, like eastern dames, 

Can speak her thoughts by flowers. 
Then listen, maids, come listen, while 

Your needle's task you ply ; 
At what I sing there 's some may smile, 

While some, perhaps, will sigh. 

Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves, 
Such nets had learn'd to frame, 



That none, in all our vales and groves, 

Ere caught so much small game : 
While gentle Sue, less given to roam, 

When Cloe's nets were taking 
These flights of birds, sat still at home, 

One small, neat Love-cage making. 
Come, listen, maids, etc. 

Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task; 

But mark how things went on: 
These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask 

Their name and age, were gone ! 
So weak poor Cloe's nets Avere wove, 

That, though she charm'd into them 
New game each hour, the youngest Love 

Was able to break through them. 
Come, listen, maids, etc. 

Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought 

Of bars too strong to sever, 
One Love with golden pinions caught, 

And caged him there for ever ; 
Instructing thereby, all coquettes, 

Whate'er their looks or ages, 
That, though 't is pleasant weaving Nets, 

'T is wiser to make Cages. 
Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile 

The task your fingers ply — 
May all who hear, like Susan smile, 

Ah ! not like Cloe sigh ! 



WHEN THROUGH THE PLlZZETTA 

Venetian Air. 
When through the Piazzetta 

Night breathes her cool an, 
Then, dearest Ninetta, 

I '11 come to thee there. 
Beneath thy mask shrouded, 

I '11 know thee afar, 
As Love knows, though clouded, 

His own Evening Star. 

In garb, then, resembling 

Some gay gondolier, 
I'll whisper thee trembling, 

"Our bark, love, is near : 
Now, now, while there hover 

Those clouds o'er the moon, 
'T will waft thee safe over 

Yon silent Lagoon." 



GO, NOW, AND DREAM. 
Sicilian Air. 
Go, now, and dream o'er that joy in thy slumber 
Moments so sweet again ne'er shalt thou number 
Of Pain's bitter draught the flavour never flies, 
While Pleasure's scarce touches the lip ere it dies 

That moon, which hung o'er your parting, so splendid, 
Often will shine again, bright as she then did — 
But, ah ! never more will the beam she saw bum 
In those happy eyes at your meeting return. 



NATIONAL AIRS. 



359 



TAKE HENCE THE BOWL. 

Neapolitan Air. 
Take hence the bowl ; though beaming 

Brightly as bowl e're shone, 
Oh ! it but sets me dreaming 

Of days, of nights now gone. 
There, in its clear reflection, 

As in a wizard's glass, 
Lost hopes and dead affection, 

Like shades, before me pass. 

Each cup I drain brings hither 

Some friend who once sat by — 
Bright lips, too bright to wither, 

Warm hearts, too warm to die ! 
Till, as the dream comes o'er me 

Of those long vanish'd years, 
Then, then the cup before me 

Seems turning all to tears. 



FAREWELL, THERESA. 
Venetian Air. 

Farewell, Theresa! that cloud which over 
Yon moon this moment gath'ring we see, 

Shall scarce from her pure path have pass'd, ere thy 
lover 
Swift o'er the wide wave shall wander from thee. 

Long, like that dim cloud, I *ve hung around thee, 

Dark'ning thy prospects, sadd'ning thy brow ; 
With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found 
thee; 
Oh! think how changed, love, how changed art 
thou now ! 

Cut here I free thee : like one awaking 
From fearful slumber, this dream thou'lt tell ; 

The bright moon her spell too is breaking, 
Past are the dark clouds ; Theresa, farewell ! 



HOW OFT WHEN WATCHING STARS 

Savoyard Air. 

How oft, when watching stars grow pale, 

And round me sleeps the moonlight scene, 
To hear a flute through yonder vale 

I from my casement lean. 
"Oh! come, my love !" each note it utters seems to 

say; 
" Oh! come, my .ove ' the night wears fast away! 
No, ne'er to mortal ear 

Can words, though warm they be, 
Speak Passion's language half so clear 
As do those notes to me ! 

Then quick my own light lute I seek. 

And strike the chords with loudes swell ; 

And, though they nought to others speak, 
He knows their language well. 



" I come, my love !" each sound they utter seems to 

say; 
" I come, my love ! thine, thine till break of day n 
Oh ! weak the power of words, 

The hues of painting dim, 
Compared to what those simple chords 
Then say and paint to him. 



WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE 

German Air. 
When the first summer bee 

O'er the young rose shall hover, 
Then, like that gay rover, 
I'll come to thee. 
He to flowers, I to lips, full of sweets to the brim-* 
What a meeting, what a meeting for me and hiia ! 

Then, to every bright tree 
In the garden he '11 wander ; 
While I, oh ! much fonder, 
Will stay with thee. 
In search of new sweetness through thousands he n 

run, 
While I find the sweetness of thousands in one. 



THOUGH 'TIS ALL BUT A DREAM 

French. Air 

Though 't is all but a dream at the best, 

And still when happiest soonest o'er, 
Yet, even in a dream to be bless'd 

Is so sweet, that I ask for no more. 
The bosom that opes with earliest hopes, 

The soonest finds those hopes untrue, 
As flowers that first in spring-time burst, 

The earliest wither too ! 
Ay — 't is all but a dream, etc. 

By friendship we oft are deceived, 

And find the love we clung to past ; 
Yet friendship will still be believed, 

And love trusted on to the last. 
The web in the leaves the spider weaves 

Is like the charm Hope hangs o'er men ; 
Though often she sees it broke by the breeze, 

She spins the bright tissue again. 
Ay — 't is all but a dream, etc. 



•T IS WHEN THE CUP IS SMILING. 

Italian Air. 
'T is when the cup is smiling before us, 

And we pledge round to hearts that are true, uoj 
true, 
That the sky of this life opens o'er us, 

And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue. 
Talk of Adam in Eden reclining, 

We are better, far better otf thus, boy, tnoa ; 
For him but two bright eyes were shining — 

See what numbers are sparkling for us ' 



360 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



When on ore side the grape-juice is dancing, 

And on t' other a blue eye beams, boy, beams, 
T is enough, t'wixt the wine and the glancing, 

To disturb even a saint' from his dreams. 
Though this life like a river is flowing, 

I care not how fast it goes on, boy, on, 
While the grape on its bank still is growing, 

And such eyes light the waves as they run. 



WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR 
SHAME? 

Neapolitan Air. 

Where shall we bury our shame? 

Where, in what desolate place, 
Hide the last wreck of a name 

Broken and stain'd by disgrace? 
Death may dissever the chain, 

Oppression will cease when we're gone : 
But the dishonour, the stain, 

Die as we may, will live on 

Was it for this we sent out 

Liberty's cry from our shore? 
Was it for this that her shout 

Thrill'd to the world's very core ? 
Thus to live cowards and slaves, 

Oh ! ye free hearts that lie dead ! 
Do you not, e'en in your graves, 

Shudder, as o'er you we tread ? 



NE'ER TALK OF WISDOM'S GLOOMY 
SCHOOLS. 

Mahratta Air. 
Ne'er talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools ; 

Give me the sage who 's able 
To draw his moral thoughts and rules 

From the sunshine of the table ; — 
Who learns how lightly, fleetly pass 

This world and all that 's in it, 
From the bumper that but crowns his glass, 

And is gone again next minute. 

The diamond sleeps within the mine, 

The pearl beneath the water, — 
While Truth, more precious, dwells in wine, 

The grape's own rosy daughter ! 
And none can prize her charms like him, 

Oh ! none like him obtain her, 
Who thus can, like Leander, swim 

Through sparkling floods to gain her ! 



HERE SLEEPS THE BARD ! 

Highland Air. 
Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well 
All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell, 
Whether its music roll'd like torrents near 
Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear ! 
Sleep, mute Bard ! unheeded now, 
The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow ;— 
That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay ; 
That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies away 



-1 



SACRED SONGS. 



TO THE REV. THOMAS PARKINSON, D. D. 



ARCHDEACON OF LEICESTER, CHANCELLOR OF CHESTER, AND RECTOR OF KEGWORTH 



BY HIS OBLIGED AND FAITHFUL FRIEND, 

Sloperton Cottage, Devizes, May 22, 1824. 



THOMAS MOORE 



No. I. 

THOU ART, OH' GOD! 

Air — Unknown. 1 

"The day is thine ; the night also is thine : thou hast pre- 
pared the light and the sun. 

"Thou hast set all the borders of the earth; thou hast 
made summer and winter." — Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17. 

Thou art, oh God ! the life and light 
Of all this wondrous world we see ; 

Its glow by day, its smile by night, 
Are but reflections caught from thee. 

Where'er we turn thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine ! 

When Day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the opening clouds of Even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into heaven — 

Those hues, that make the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine. 

When Night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and skies, 

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes — 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 

So grand, so countless, Lord ! are Thine. 

When youthful Spring around us breathes, 
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 

And every flower the Summer wreathes 
Is born beneath that kindling eye. 

Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine ! 



THIS WORI D IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. 

Air — Stevenson. 
This world is all a fleeting show, 
For man' s illusion given ; 

I I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. 
It is sung to the beautiful old words, "I do confess thou'rt 
smooth and fair." 

2Z 



The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe, 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — 
There 's nothing true but heaven ! 

And false the light on Glory's plume, 

As fading hues of Even ; 
And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom 
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb,— 

There 's nothing bright but heaven ! 

Poor wanderers of a stormy day, 

From wave to wave we're driven, 
And fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, 
Serve but to light the troubled way — 
There 's nothing calm but heaven ! 



FALLEN IS THY THRONE 
Air — Martini. 
Fallen is thy throne, oh Israel ! 

Silence is o'er thy plains ; 
Thy dwellings all lie desolate, 

Thy children weep in chains. 
Where are the dews that fed thee 

On Etham's barren shore ? 
That fire from heaven which led thee, 

Now lights thy path no more. 

Lord ! thou didst love Jerusalem— 

Once she was all thy own ; 
Her love thy fairest heritage, 1 

Her power thy glory's throne : 2 
Till evil came, and blighted 

Thy long-loved olive-tree ; 3 
And Salem's shrines were lighted 

For other Gods than Thee ! 

Then sunk the star of Solyma — 
Then pass'd her glory's day, 

Like heath that, in the wilderness, 4 
The wild wind whirls away. 



1 "I have left mine heritage ; I have given the dearlv-b»» 
loved of my soul into the hands of her enemies." — Jeremiah 
xii. 7. 

2 " Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory." — Jcr. xiv. 21. 

3 "The Loid called thy name a green olive-tree; fail 
and of goodly fruit," etc. — Jcr. xi. 16. 

4 "For he shall be like the heath in the desert." — Jer 
xvii. 6. 



362 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Silent and waste her bowers, 
Where once the mighty trod, 

And sunk those guilty towers, 
While Baal reign'd as God ! 

"Go," — said the Lord — "Ye conquerors ! 

Steep in her blood your swords, 
And rase to earth her battlements, 1 

For they are not the Lord's ! 
Till Zion's mournful daughter 

O'er kindred bones shall tread, 
And Hinnom's vale of slaughter 2 

Shall hide but half her dead!" 



WHO IS THE MAID? 
ST. JEROME'S LOVE.s 
Air — Beethoven. 
Who is the maid my spirit seeks, 

Through cold reproof and slander's blight ? 
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks ? 

Is Tier's an eye of this world's light? 
No, — wan and sunk with midnight prayer 

Are the pale looks of her I love ; 
Or if, at times, a light be there, 
Its beam is kindled from above. 

I chose not her, my soul's elect, 

From those who seek their Maker's shrine 
In gems and garlands proudly deck'd, 

As if themselves were things divine! 
No — Heaven but faintly warms the breast 

That beats beneath a broider'd veil ; 
And she who comes in glittering vest 

To mourn her frailty, still is frail. 4 

Not so the faded form I prize 

And love, because its bloom is gone ; 
The glory in those sainted eyes 

Is all the grace her brow puts on. 
And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, , 

So touching as that form's decay, 
Which, like the altar's trembling light, 

In holy lustre wastes away ! 



THE BIRD, LET LOOSE. 

Air — Beethoven. n 

The bird, let loose in eastern skies, ) 

When hastening fondly home, \ 



1 " Take away her battlements ; for they are not the 
Lord's." — Jer. v. 10. 

2 " Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that 
t shall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son 

of Hinnom, but the Valley of Slaughter ; for they shall bury 
in Tophet till there be no place." — Jer. vii. 32. 

3 These lines were suggested by a passage in St. Jerome's 
reply to some calumnious remarks lhat had been circulated 
upon his intimacy with the matron Paula :—" Numquid me 
vestes series, nitentes gemma;, picta facies, aut auri rapuit 
smbitio 1 Nulla fnit alia Ro:n;a matronarum, quw me am 
po>sit edomare mentem, nisi lugens atque jejunans, fletu 
pene coecata." — Epist. " Si iibi putcm." 

4 Ou yxp %puiro?>opE(i'Tt)v $xx.pvov<rxv Set. — Chrysost. 
Homil. 8 in Epist. ad Tim. 

5 The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated 
pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and 
the iil.ice to which she is destined. J 



Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 

Where idle warblers roam. 
But high she shoots through air and light, 

Above all low delaj', 
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 

Nor shadow dims her way. 

So grant me, God ! from every care 

And stain of passion free, 
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, 

To hold my course to Thee ! 
No sin to cloud — no lure to stay 

My Soul, as home she springs ;— 
Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 

Thy freedom in her wings ! 



OH! THOU WHO DRY' ST THE MOURN- 
ER'S TEAR ! 

Air — Haydn. 



"He healeth the hroken in heart, and bindeth up thofr 
wounds." — Psalm cxlvii. 3. 



Oh ! Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear 

How dark this world would be, 
If, when deceived and wounded here, 

We could not fly to Thee. 
The friends who in our sunshine live, 

When winter comes, are flown ; 
And he who has but tears to give, 

Must weep those tears alone. 
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, 

Which, like the plants that throw 
Their fragrance from the wounded part, 

Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

When joy no longer soothes or cheers, 

And even the hope tnat threw 
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, 

Is dimm'd and vanish'd too ! 
Oh ! who would bear life's stormy doom, 

Did not thy wing of love 
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom 

Our peace-branch from above ? 
Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright 

With more than rapture's ray ; 
As darkness shows us worlds of light 

We never saw by day ! 



WEEP NOT FOR THOSE. 

Air — Avison. 
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, 

In life's happy morning) hath hid from our eyes, 
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, 

Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies 
Death chill'd the fair fountain ere sorrow had stain'd it, 

'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, 
And but sleeps till the sunshine of heaven has un- 
chain'd it, 

To water that Eden where first was its source ! 
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, 

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eye*. 



SACRED SONGS. 



363 



Ere sin tnrew a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, 
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. 

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,' 

Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now, 
Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale, 

And the garland of love was yet fresh on her brow ! 
Oh ! then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying 

From this gloomy world, while its gloom was un- 
known — 
And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying. 

Were echoed in heaven by lips like her own ! 
Weep not for her, — in her spring-time she flew 

To that land where the wings of the soul are un- 
furl'd, 
knd now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, 

Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world. 



THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT 
SHRINE. 

Air — Stevenson. 
The turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; 
My temple, Lord ! that Arch of thine ; 
My censer's breath the mountain airs, 
And silent thoughts my only prayers. 2 

My choir shall be the moonlight waves, 
When murmuring homeward to their caves, 
Or when the stillness of the sea, 
Even more than music, breathes of Thee ! 

I '11 seek, by day, some glade unknown, 
All light and silence, like thy throne ! 
And the pale stars shall be, at night, 
The only eyes that watch my rite. 

Thy heaven, on which 't is bliss to look, 
Shall be my pure and shining book, 
Where I shall read, in words of flame, 
The glories of thy wondrous name. 

I '11 read thy anger in the rack 

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track ; 

Thy mercy in the azure hue 

Of sunny brightness breaking through ! 

There 's nothing bright, above, below, 
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, 
But in its light my soul can see 
Some feature of the Deity ! 

There 's nothing dark, below, above, 
But. in its gloom I trace thy love, 
And meekly wait that moment when 
Thy touch shall turn ail bright again ! 



1 This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, 
alludes to the f;Ue of a very lovely and amiable girl, the 
l of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married 
>urne church, October 31, lt<15, and died of a fever 
in a lew weeks after: the sound of her marriage- bells seem- 
ed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. 
I Hiring h^r last delirium sh« »u.i j several hymns, in a voice 
irer and sweeter than usual, and among them were 
some from the present collection (particularly, "There 's 
nothing bright but heaven,") which this very interesting 
gin had often heard during the summer. 
•2 Pii orant tacite. 



SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. 

MIRIAM'S SONG. 
Air — Avison. 1 

" And Miriam, the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a 
timbrel in her hand ; and all the women went out after her 
with timbrels and with dances." — Exod. xv. 20. 

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! 
Jehovah has triumph'd, — his people are free. 
Sing — for the pride of the tyrant is broken, 

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave- 
How vain was their boasting ! — The Lord hath but 
spoken, 

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. 
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
Jehovah has triumph'd, — his people are free. 

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord ! 

His word was our arrow, his breath was our aword!— 

Who shall return to tell Egypt the story 

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? 
For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory ,* 

And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide 
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
Jehovah has triumph'd, — his people are free. 



GO, LET ME WEEP! 

Air — Stevenson. 
Go, let me weep ! there 's bliss in tears, 

When he who sheds them inly feels 
Some lingering stain of early years 

Effaced by every drop that steals. 
The fruitless showers of worldly woe 

Fall dark to earth, and never rise ; 
While tears that from repentance flow, 

In bright exhalement reach the skies 
Go, let me weep ! there 's bliss in tears 

When he who sheds them inly feels 
Some lingering stain of early years 

Effaced by every drop that steals. 

Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew 

More idly than the summer's wind, 
And, while they pass'd, a fragrance thre 

But left no trace of sweets behind. — 
The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves 

Is cold, is faint to those that swell 
The heart where pure repentance grieves 

O'er hours of pleasure loved too well ! 
Leave me to sigh o'er days that flew 

More idly than the summer's wind, 
And, while they pass'd, a fragrance threw 

But left no trace of sweets behind. 



1 I have so altered the character of this air, w*uch i3 
from the beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned con- 
certos, that, without this acknowledgment, it could hardly 
I think, be recognised. 

2 " And it came to pass, that, in the morning-watch, the 
Lord looked unio the host of the Egyptians, through tne 
pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the 
Egyptians." — Exod. xiv. 24. 



164 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



COME NOT, OH LORD ! 

Air — Haydn. 

Come not, oh Le»-d ! in the dread robe of splendour 

Thou worest on the Mount, in the day of thine ire ; 

Come veil'd in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender, 

Which Mercy flings over thy features of fire ! 

Lord ! thou rememberest the night, when thy nation 1 
Stood fronting her foe by the red-rolling stream ; 

On Egypt 2 thy pillar frown'd dark desolation, 
While Israel bask'd all the night in its beam. 

So, when the dread clouds of anger enfold thee. 

From us, in thy mercy, the dark side remove ; 
While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold thee, 

Oh ! turn upon us the mild light of thy Love! 



WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS. 

Air — Stevenson. 
Were not the sinful Mary's tears 

An offering worthy heaven, 
When o'er the faults of former years 

She wept — and was forgiven ? — 

When, bringing every balmy sweet 

Her day of luxury stored, 
She o'er her Saviour's hallow'd feet 

The precious perfumes pour'd ; — 

And wiped them with that golden hair, 

Where once the diamond shone, 
Though now those gems of grief were there 

Which shine for God alone ! 

Were not those sweets so humbly shed, — 
That hair — those weeping eyes, — 

And the sunk heart, that inly bled, — 
Heaven's noblest sacrifice ? 

Thou that hast slept in error's sleep, 
Oh wouldst thou wake in heaven, 

Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep, 
" Love much" 3 — and be forgiven ! 



AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS. 
Air — Haydn. 

As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean, 

Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, 

So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, 

Unheard by the world, rises silent to thee, 

My God ! silent to thee — 

Pure, warm, silent, to thee : 

So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, 

Unheard bv the world, rises silent to thee ! 



1 l ' And it came between the cam]) of the Egyptians and 
the camp of Israel ; and it was a cloud and darkness to 
them, but it gave light by night to these." — Exud. xiv. 20. 
My application of this passage is borrowed from some late 
prose writer, whose name I am ungrateful enough to forget. 

2 Instead of" On Egypt" here, it will suit the music bel- 
ter to sing "On these;" and in the third line of the next 
verse, "While shrouded" may, with the samo view, be al- 
tered to " While wrapp'd." 

3 " Her sins, which are many, are forgiven ; for she loved 
aiu^h." — St. Luke vii. 47. 



As still to the stJLT cf its worship, though clouded, 

The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea, 

So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded, 

The hope of my spirit turns trembling to thee, 

, My God.! trembling to thee — 

True, fond, trembling, to thee : 

So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world sKouded. 

The hope of my spirit turns trembling f» tVe ! 



BUT WHO SHALL SEE. 

Air — Stevenson. 
But who -shall see the glorious day ; 

When, throned on Zion's brow, 
The Lord shall rend that veil away 

Which hides the nations now ! ' 
When earth no more beneath the fear 

Of his rebuke shall lie ; 2 
When pain shall cease, and every tear 

Be wiped from every eye ! 3 

Then, Judah ! thou no more shalt mourn 

Beneath the heathen's chain ; 
Thy days of splendour shall return, 

And all be new again. 4 
The Fount of Life shall then be quaff'd 

In peace, by all who come ! 5 
And every wind that blows shall waft 

Some long-lost exile home ! 



ALMIGHTY GOD ! 

CHORUS OP PRIESTS. 
Air — Mozart. 
Almighty God ! when round thy shrine 
The palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine, 6 
(Emblem of Life's eternal ray, 
And Love that "fadeth not away,") 
We bless the flowers, expanded all, 7 
We bless the leaves that never fall, 
And trembling say, " In Eden thus 
The Tree of Life may flower for us !" 

When round thy cherubs, smiling calm 
Without their flames, 8 we wreath the palm, 



1 " And he will destroy in this mountain the face of the 
covering cast over all people, and the veil that is spread 
over all nations." — Isaiah xxv. 7. 

2 " The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off 
all the earth." — Isaiah xxv. 8. 

3 "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes i 
neither shall there be any more pain." — Rev. xxi.4. 

4 " And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make 
all things new." — Rev. xxi. 5. 

5 "And whosoever will, let him take the water of life 
freely." — Rev. xxii. 17. 

6 "The Scriptures having declared that the Temple of 
Jerusalem was a type of the Messiah, it is natural to con- 
clude that the Palms, which made so conspicuous a figure 
in that structure, represented that Life and Immortality 
which were brought to light by the Gospel." — Observations 
on the Palm, as a sacred Emblem, by W. Tighe. . 

7 " And he carved all the walls of the house round about 
with carved figures of cherubims, and palm-trees, and open 
flowers." — 1 Kings vi. 29. 

8 " When the passoverof the tabernacles was revealed to 
the great law-giver in the mount, then the cherubic images 
which appeared in that structure were no longer surrounded 
by flames; for the tabernacle was a type of the dispensation 
of mercy, by which Jehovah confirmed his gracious cove 
nant to redeem mankind." — Observations on the Palm 



SACRED SONGS. 



365 



Oh God ! we feel the emblem true, — 
Thy mercy is eternal too ! 
Those cherubs with their smiling eyes, 
That crown of palm which never dies, 
Are but the types of thee above — 
Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love ! 



OH FAIR! OH PUREST! 

SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.i 
Air — Moore. 
Oh fair ! oh purest ! be thou the dove 
That flies alone to some sunny grove, 
And lives unseen, and bathes her wing, 
All vestal white in the limpid spring. 
There, if the hovering hawk be near, 
That limpid spring in its mirror clear 
Reflects him ere he can reach his prey 
And warns the timorous bird away. 

Oil ! be like this dove ; 
Oh fair ! oh purest ! be like this dove. 

The sacred pages of God's own book 
Shall be the spring, the eternal brook, 
In whose holy mirror, night and day, 
Thou wilt study Heaven's reflected ray :— 
And should the foes of virtue dare, 
With gloomy wing, to seek thee there, 
Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie 
Between heaven and thee, and trembling fly ! 

Oh ! be like the dove ; 
Oh fair ! oh purest ! be like the dove. 



No. II. 

ANGEL OF CHARITY. 
Air — Handel. 
Angel of Charity, who from above 

Comest to dwell a pilgrim here, 
Thy voice is music, thy smile is love, 

And pity's soul is in thy tear ! 
When on the shrine of God were laid 

First-fruits of all most good and fair, 
That ever grew in Eden's shade, 

Thine was the holiest offering there ! 

Hope and her sister, Faith, were given 
But as our guides to yonder sky ; 

Soon as they reach the verge of heaven, 
Lost in that blaze of bliss, they die. 2 



1 In St. Augustine's treatise upon the advantages of a 
solitary life, addressed to his sister, there is the following 
fanciful passage, from which the thought of this song was 
taken: — "Te, soror, nunquam nolo esse securam, sed ti- 
mere, semperque tuam fragilitatem habere suspectam, ad 
vnstar pavidaj columbae frequentare rivos aquarum et quasi 
in spectilo accipitris cernere supeivolantis emgiem et ca- 
»rere. Rivi aquarum sentential sunt scripturarum, quae de 
impidissimo sapientia fonte profiuentes," etc. etc. — De Vit. 
Eremi*.. ad Sororcm. 

2 " Then Faith shall fail, and holy Hope shall die, 
One lost ir certainty, and one in joy."— Prior. 



But long as Love, almighty Love, 
Shall on his throne of thrones abide, 

Thou shalt, oh ! Charity, dwell above, 
Smiling for ever by his side. 



BEHOLD THE SUN 
Air — Lord Morning ton. 
Behold the sun, how bright 

From yonder east he springs, 
As if the soul of life and light 
Were breathing from his wings. 

So bright the gospel broke 

Upon the souls of men ; 
So fresh the dreaming world awoke 

In truth's full radiance then ! 

Before yon sun arose, 

Stars cluster'd through the sky — 
But oh how dim, how pale were those, 

To his one burning eye ! 

So truth lent many a ray, 
To. bless the Pagan's night — 

But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they 
To thy one glorious light ! 



LORD, WHO SHALL BEAR THAT DAY. 

Air — Dr. Boyce. 
Lord, who shall bear that day, so dread, so splendid 

When we shall see thy angel hovering o'er 
This sinful world, with hand to heaven extended, 

And hear him swear by thee that time 's no more ? 
When earth shall see thy fast-consuming ray — 
Who, mighty God, oh who shall bear that day ? 

When thro' the world thy awful call hath sounded— 
" Wake, oh ye dead, to judgment wake, ye dead !" a 

And from the clouds, by seraph eyes surrounded, 
The Saviour shall put forth his radiant head ; 3 

While earth and heaven before him pass away — * 

Who, mighty God, oh who shall bear that day ? 

When, with a glance, the eternal Judge shall sever 
Earth's evil spirits from the pure and bright, 

And say to those, " Depart from me for ever !" 
To these, " Come, dwell with me in endless light !" 8 



1 "And the Angel which I saw stand upon the sea and 
upon the earth, lifted up his hand to heaven, and sware by 
Him that liveth for ever and ever, that there should be time- 
no longer." — Rev. x. 5, 6. 

2 "Awake, ye dead, and come to judgment." 

3 " They shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds 
of heaven, — and all the angels with him." — Matt, xxiv 3C, 
and xxv. 31. 

4 " From his face the earth and the heaven fled away." 
— Rev. xx. 11. 

5 " And before him shall be gathered all nations, and He 
shall separate them one from another. 

Then shall the king say unto them on his right hand 
Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom pre- 
pared for you, etc. 

" Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, D#> 
part from me, ye cursed, etc. 

" And these shall go away into everlasting punishment 
but the righteous into life eternal." — Matt. xxv. 32, et eeg 



3G6 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



When each and all in silence take their way — 
Who, mighty God, oh who shall bear that day ? 



OH ! TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE. 

Air — Haydn. 
Oh ! teach me to love thee, to feel what thou art, 
Till, fill'd with the one sacred image, my heart 

Shall other passions disown — 
Like some pure temple that shines apart, 

Reserved for thy worship alone I 

In joy and in sorrow, through praise and through 

blame, 
Oh still let me, living and dying the same, 

In thy service bloom and decay — 
Like some lone altar, whose votive flame 

In holiness wasteth away ! 

Though born in this desert, and doom'd by my birth. 
To pain and affliction, to darkness and dearth, 

On thee let my spirit rely — 
Like some rude dial, that, fix'd on earth, 

Still looks for its light from the sky ! 



WEEP, CHILDREN OF ISRAEL. 

Air — Stevenson. 
Weep, weep for him, the man of God — 1 

In yonder vale he sunk to rest, 
But none of earth can point the sod 2 
That flowers above his sacred head. 
Weep, children of Israel, weep ! 

His doctrines fell like heaven's rain, 3 
His words refresh'd like heaven's dew- 

Oh, ne'er shall Israel see again 
A chief to God and her so true. 
Weep, children of Israel, weep ! 

Remember ye his parting gaze, 

His farewell song by Jordan's tide, 

When, full of glory and of days, 
He saw the promised land — and died !* 
Weep, children of Israel, weep ! 

Yet died he not as men who sink, 
Before our eyes, to soulless clay ; 

But, changed to spirit, like a wink 
Of summer lightning, pass'd away ! s 
Weep, children of Israel, weep ! 



LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY 
BREEZE. 

Air — Beethoven. 
Like morning, when her early breeze 
Breaks up the surface of the seas, 
That, in their furrows, dark with nighf, 
Her hand may sow the seeds of light— 

Thy grace can send its breathings o'er 
The spirit, dark and lost before, 
And, freshening all its depths, prepare 
For truth divine to enter there ! 

Till David touch'd his sacred lyre, 
In silence lay the unbreathing wire— 
But when he swept its chords along, 
Even angels stoop'd to hear that song 



1 " And the children of Israel wept for Moses in the 
plains of Moab."— Deut. xxxiv. 8. 

2 "And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab : 
but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." — Ibid. 
ver. 6. 

3 " My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall 
distil as the dew." — Moses' Song. 

4 "I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou 
Bhalt not go over thither." — Ver. 5. 

5 " As he was going to embrace Eleazer and Joshua, and 
was still discoursing with them, a cloud stood over him on 
the sudden, and he disappeared in a certain valley, although 
he wrote in the Holy Books, that he died, which was done 
out of fear, lest they should venture to say that, because of 
his extraordinary virtue, he went to God." — Josephus, Book 
V. chap. viii. 



So sleeps the soul, till thou, O Lord, 
Shall deign to touch its lifeless chord — 
Till, waked by thee, its breath shall rise 
In music, worthy of the skies ' 



COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. 
Air — German. 
Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, 
Come, at the shrine of God fervently kneel ; 
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your aft 
guish — 
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. 

Joy of the desolate, light of the straying, 
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, 

Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying— 
" Earth has no sorrows that Heaven cannot cure. 

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us, 
What charm for aching hearts he can reveal, 

Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us 

" Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal." 



AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME. 

Air — Stevenson. 
Awake, arise, thy light is come; 1 

The nations, that before outshone thee, 
Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb — 

The glory of the Lord is on thee ! 

Arise — the Gentiles, to thy ray, 

From every nook of earth shall cluster; 

And kings and princes haste to pay 
Their homage to thy rising lustre. 2 

Lift up thine eyes around, and see, 

O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters, 

Thy exiled sons return to thee, 

To thee return thy home-sick daughters.* 



1 "Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of 
the Lord is risen upon thee." — Isaiah lx. 

2 " And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and Rings to 
the brightness of thy rising." — Isaiah lx. 

3 "Lift up thine eyes round about and see; all they gather 
themselves together, they come to thee : thy sons shall coma 
from afar, and thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side " — Id 



rr=rd» 



SACRED SONGS. 



367 



And camels rich, from Midian's tents, 
Shall lay their treasures down before thee ; 

And Saba bring her gold and scents, 
To fill thy air, and sparkle o'er thee. 1 

See who are these that, like a cloud, 2 
Are gathering from all earth's dominions, 

Like doves, long absent, when allow'd 
Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions. 

Surely the isles shall wait for me, 3 
The ships of Tarshish round will hover, 

To bring ?hy sons across the sea, 
And waft their gold and silver over. 

And Lebanon, thy pomp shall grace — * 
The fir, the pine, the palm victorious 

Shall beautify our Holy Place, 
And make the ground I tread on glorious. 

No more shall discord haunt thy ways, 5 
Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation ; 

But thou shalt call thy portals, Praise, 
And thou shalt name thy walls, Salvation. 

The sun no more shall make thee bright, 8 
Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee ; 

But God Himself shall be thy Light, 
And flash eternal glory through thee. 

Thy sun shall never more go down ; 

A. ray, from heav'n itself descended, 
Shall light thy everlasting crown — 

Thy days of mourning all arc ended. 7 

My own, elect, and righteous Land ! 
The Branch, for ever green and vernal, 

Which I have planted with this hand- 
Live thou shalt in Life Eternal. 3 



THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT. 

Air — Crescentini. 
There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows 

weary 
Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary — ■ 

What may that Desert be ? 
T is Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come 
Are lost, like that daylight, for 't is not their home. 



1 " The multitude of camels shall cover thee ; the drome- 
daries of Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall 
come ; they shall bring gold and incense." — Isaiah lx. 

2 " Who are these that fly as a cloud, and as the doves 
to their windows?" — lb. 

3 " Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of 
Tarshish first, to bring thy sons from far, their silver and 
their gold with them." — lb. 

4 "The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee; the fir- 
tree, the pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the 
place of my sanctuary, and I will make the place of my feet 
glorious." — lb. 

5 " Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting 
nor destruction within thy borders ; but thou shalt call thy 
walls, Salvation, and thy gates, Praise." — lb. 

6 " Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day ; neither for 
brightness shall the moon give light unto thee; but the Lord 
shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy 
g.ory." — lb. 

7 " Thy sun shall no more go down ; for the Lord shall be 
thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be 
ended." — lb. 

8 "Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall in- 
nerit the land for ever, the branch of my planting, the work 
af my hands." — lb. 



There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes 
The water he pants for but sparkles and flies— 

Who may that Pilgrim be ? 
'T is Man, hapless Man, through this life tempted on 
By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone. 

There is a bright Fountain, through that Desert steal* 

ing, 
To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing — 
What may that Fountain be ? 
'T is Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under 

ground, 
By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found. 1 

There is a fair Spirit, whose wand hath the spell 
To point where those waters in secrecy dwell — 

Who may that Spirit be ? 
'T is Faith, humble Faith, who hath learn'd that 

where'er * 

Her wand stoops to worship, the Truth must be there 



SINCE FIRST THY WORD. 

Air— Nicholas Freeman. 

Since first thy word awaked my heart, 
Like new life dawning o'er me, 

Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art, 
All light and love before me. 

Nought else I feel, or hear or see- 
All bonds of earth I sever — 

Thee, oh God, and only Thee 
I live for, now and ever. 

Like him, whose fetters dropp'd away 

When light shone o'er his prison, 2 
My spirit, touch'd by Mercy's ray, 

Hath from her chains arisen. 
And shall a soul Thou bid'st be free 

Return to bondage ? — never ! 
Thee, oh God, and only Thee 

I live for, now and ever. 



HARK! 'T IS THE BREEZE. 

Air — Rousseau. 
Hark ! — 't is the breeze of twilight calling 

Earth's weary children to repose ; 
While, round the coucjh of Nature falling, 

Gently the night's soft curtains close. 
Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining, 

Num^rless stars, through yonder dark, 
Shall look, like eyes of cherubs shining 

From out the veils that hid the Ark ! 

Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest, 
Thou who, in silence throned above, 

Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest 
Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love. 



1 In singing, the following line had better be adopted— 

14 Can but by the gifted of heaven be found." 

2 " And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, 
and a light shined in the prison, and his chains fell off from 
his hands." — Acts xii. 7. 



368 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely 
Our souls, awhile from life withdrawn, 

May, in their darkness, stilly, purely, 
Like " sealed fountains," rest till dawn. 



WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE 
SAINTED ? 

Air — Hasse. 

Wpiere is your dwelling, ye sainted ? 

Through what Elysium more bright 
Than fancy or hope ever painted, 

Walk ye in glory and light ? 
Who the same kingdom inherits ? 

Breathes there a soul that may dare 
Look to that world of spirits ? 

Or hope to dwell with you there ? 

Sages who, ev'n in exploring 

Nature through all her bright ways ; 
Went, like the seraphs, adoring, 

And veil'd your eyes in the blaze — 
Martyrs, who left for our reaping 

Truths you had s$wn in your blood- 
Sinners, whom long years of weeping 

Chasten' d from evil to good — 

Maidens who, like the young Crescent, 

Turning away your pale brows 
From earth, and the light of the Present, 

Look'd to your Heavenly Spouse — 
Say, through what region enchanted 

Walk ye, in heaven's sweet air ? 
Or, oh, to whom is it granted, 

Bright souls, to dwell with you there ? 



UOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S 
WING. 

Air— Anonymous. 

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing, 

Whose theme is in the skies- 
Like morning larks, that sweeter sing 

The nearer heaven they rise ! 

Though Love his wreathed lyre may tune, 

Yet ah ! the flowers he round it wreathes 
Were pluck'd beneath pale Passion's moon, 

Whose madness from their odour breathes. 
How purer far the sacred lute, 

Round which Devotion ties 
Sweet flowers that turn to heav'nly fruit, 

And palm that never dies. 

Though War's high-sounding harp may be 

Most welcome to the hero's ears, 
Alas, his chords of victory 

Are bathed, all o'er, with tears. 
How far more sweet their numbers run 

Who hymn, like saints above, 
No victor, but the Eternal One, 

No trophies but of Love ! 



GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT. 

Air — Stevenson. 
Go forth to the Mount — bring the olive-branch home, 
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come ! 
From that time, 2 when the moon upon Ajalor.'s vale. 
Looking motionless down, 3 saw the kings of the 
earth, 
In the presence of God's mighty Champion, grow 
pale — 
Oh never had Judah an hour of such mirth ! 
Go forth to the Mount — bring the olive-branch home, 
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come ! 

Bring myrtle and palm — bring the boughs of each tree 
That is worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free. 4 
From that day, when the footsteps of Israel shone, 

With a light not their own, through the Jordan's 
deep tide, 
Whose waters shrunk back as the Ark glided on — ' 

Oh never had Judah an hour of such pride ! 
Go forth to the mount — bring the olive-branch home 
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come ! 



IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HERE- 
AFTER. 
Air — Haydn. 

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter, 

When the spirit leaves this sphere, 
Love, with deathless wings, shall waft her 

To those she long hath mourn'd for here? 
Hearts, from which 't was death to sever, 

Eyes, this world can ne'er restore, 
There, as warm, as bright as ever, 

Shall meet us and be lost no more. 

When wearily we wander, asking 

Of earth and heaven, where are they, 
Beneath whose smile we once lay basking— 

Blest, and thinking bliss would stay ! 
Hope still lifts her radiant finger 

Pointing to the eternal home, 
Upon whose portal yet they linger, 

Looking back for us to come. 

Alas — alas — doth Hope deceive us ? 

Shall friendship — love — shall all those ties 
That bind a moment, and then leave us, 

Be found again where nothing dies ? 
Oh ! if no other boon were given, 

To keep our hearts from wrong and stain, 
Who would not try to win a heaven 

Where all we love shall live again ? 



1 " And that they should puhlish and proclaim in aJl their 
cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, Go forth unto the mount 
and fetch olive-branches," etc. etc. — JVek. viii. 15. 

2 " For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun, unto 
that day, had not the children of Israel done so: antl there 
was very great gladness." — lb. 17. 

3 "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon; and thou, Moon 
in the valley of Ajalon." — Josh. x. 12. 

4 " Fetch olive-branches and pine-branches, and myrtle- 
branches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, 
to make booths." — JVeA. viii. 15. 

5 "And the priests that bare the ark of tho covenant of 
the Lord stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and 
all the Israelites passed over on dry ground."— Josh iii 17 



WAR AGAINST BABYLON. 
Air — Novkllo. 
"War against Babylon!" shout we around, 1 
Be our banners through earth unfurl'd ; 
Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound — 2 

" War against Babylon !" shout through the world ! 
Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters, 3 

Thy day of pride is ended now ; 
And the dark curse of Israel's daughters 



1 " Shout against her lound about." — Jer. i. 15. 

2 "Set up a standard in the land, blow the trumpet 
among the nations, prepare the nations against her, call to- 
gether against her the kingdoms," etc. etc. — lb. li. 27. 

3 "Oil thou, that dwellest upon many w»ters, thy end is 
some." — Jer i. 13. 

3 A 



Breaks, like a thunder-cloud, over thy brow! 
War, war, war against Babylon ! 

Make bright the v.r^-"-z, and gather the shields,' 

Set the standard of God on high — 
Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields, 

" Zion" our watchword, and " vengeance" our cry' 
Woe ! woe ! — the time of thy visitation 2 

Is come, proud Land, thy doom is cast— 
And the bleak wave of desolation 

Sweeps o'er thy guilty head, at last ! 

War, war, war against Babylon ! 



1 " Make bright the arrows; gather the shields.... set 
the standard upon the walls of Babylon." — lb. 

2 "Woe unto them! for their day is come, the tioi at 
their visitation." — lb. 



BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 



BLACK AND BLUE EYES. 

The brilliant black eye 

May in triumph let fly 
All its darts, without caring who feels 'em ; 

But the soft eye of blue, 

Though it scatter wounds too, 
\s much better pleased when it heals 'em. 

Dear Fanny ! dear Fanny ! 

The soft eye of blue, 

Though it scatter wounds too, 
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em, dear Fanny ! 

The black eye may say, 
" Come and worship my ray, — 
By adoring, perhaps you may move me !" 
But the blue eye, half hid, 
Says, from under its lid, 
I love, and I'm yours if you love me !" 
Dear Fanny ! dear Fanny ! 
The blue eye, half hid, 
Says, from under its lid, 
* I love, and am yours if you love me !" dear Fanny ! 

Then tell me, oh ! why, 

In that lovely eye, 
Not a charm of its tint I discover; 

Or why should you wear 

The only blue pair 
That ever said " No" to a lover ? 

Dear Fanny ! dear Fanny ! 

Oh ! why should you wear 

The only blue pair 
TLi't ever said "No" to a lover, dear Fanny? 



CEASE, OH CEASE TO TEMPT! 

Cease, oh cease to tempt 

My tender heart to love ! 
It never, never can 

So wild a flame approve. 
All its joys and pa-ins 

To others I resign ; 
But be the vacant heart, 

The careless bosom mine. 
Then cease, oh cease to tempt 

My tender heart to love ! 
It never, never can 

So wild a flame approve. 

Say, oh say no more 

That lovers' pains are sweet ! 
I never, never can 

Believe the fond deceit. 
Weeping day and night, 

Consuming life in sighs, — 
This is the lover's lot, 

And this I ne'er could prize. 



Then say, oh say no more 
That lovers' pains are sweet i 

I never, never can 

Believe the fond deceit. 



DEAR FANNY. 
She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart 
cool; 
She has wit, but you must not be caught so ; 
Thus Reason advises, but Reason 's a fool, 
And 't is not the first time I have thought so, 
Dear Fanny. 

" She is lovely !" Then love her, nor let the bliss fly 
'T is the charm of youth's vanishing season : 

Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny 
That Love reasons much better than Reason, 
Dear Fanny ? 



DID NOT. 

'T was a new feeling — something more 
Than we had dared to own before, 

Which then we hid not, which then we hid not 
We saw it in each other's eye, 
And wish'd, in every murmur'd sigh, 

To speak, but did not ; to speak, but did not. 

She felt my lips' impassion'd touch — 
'T was the first time I dared so much, 

And yet she chid not, and yet she chid not; 
But whisper'd o'er my burning brow, 
" Oh ! do you doubt I love you now?" 

Sweet soul ! I did not ; sweet soul ! I did not 

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill, 

I press'd it closer, closer still, 
Though gently bid not, though gently bid not ; 

Till — oh ! the world hath seldom heard 

Of lovers, who so nearly err'd, 
And yet who did i*ot, and yet who did not. 



FANNY, DEAREST! 
Oh ! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, 

Fanny, dearest! for thee I'd sigh; 
And every smile on my cheek should turn 

To tears, when thou art nigh. 
But, between love, and wine, and sleep, 

So busy a life I live, 
That even the time it would take to weep 

Is more than my heart can give 
Then bid me not despair and pine, 

Fanny, dearest of- all the dears ! 
The love, that 's order' d to bathe m wine, 

Would be sure to take cold in tears. 



BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 



371 



Reflected bright in this heart of mine, 
Fanny, dearest ! thy image lies ; 

But, oh ! the mirror would cease to shine, 
If dimni'd too often with sighs. 

They lose the half of beauty's light, 
Who view it through sorrow's tear; 

And 't is but to see thee truly bright 
That I keep my eye-beam clear. 

Then wait no longer till tears shall flow- 
Fanny, dearest ! the hope is vain ; 

If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, 
I shall never attempt it with rain. 



FANNY WAS IN THE GROVE. 

FaxV.my was in the grove, 

And Lubin, her boy, was nigh ; 
Her eye was warm with love, 

And her soul was warm as her eye. 
Oh ! oh ! if Lubin now would sue, 
Oh ! oh ! what could Fanny do ? 

Fanny was made for bliss, 
Bat she was young and shy ; 

And when he had stolen a kiss, 
She blush'd, and said with a sigh— 

" Oh ! oh ! Lubin, ah ! tell me true, 

Oil ! oh ! what are you going to do ?" 

They wander'd beneath the shade, 
Her eye was dimm'd with a tear, 

For all ! the poor little maid 

Was thrilling with love and fear. 

Oh ! oh ! if Lubin would but sue, 
jCUijoh ! what could Fanny do ! 

Sweetly along the grove 

The birds sang all the while, 

And Fanny now said to her love, 

With a frown that was half a smile*— 

" Oh ! oh ! why did Lubin sue ? 

Oh 1 oh ! why did Lubin sue ?" 



Viver en Cadenas. 

FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM. 

Fhom life without freedom, oh ! who would not fly ? 
For one day of freedom, oh ! who would not die ? - y 
Hark ! hark ! 't is the trumpet ! the call of the brave, 
The death-song of tyrants and dirge of the slave. 
Our country lies bleeding — oh ! fly to her aid ; 
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade. 
From life without freedom, oh! who would not fly? 
For one day of freedom, oh ! who would not die ? 

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains— 
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains ! 
On, on to the combat ! the heroes that bleed 
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. 
And oh ! even if Freedom from this world be driven, 
Despair not — at least we shall find her in heaven. 
In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains — 
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains. 



HERE'S THE BOWER. 

Here 's the bower she loved so much, 

And the tree she planted ; 
Here 's the harp she used to touch— 

Oh ! how that touch enchanted ! 
Roses now unheeded sigh ; 

Where 's the hand to wreath them ? 
Songs around neglected lie, 

Where 's the lip to breathe them ? 
Here 's the bower she loved so much, 

And the tree she planted ; 
Here 's the harp she used to touch— 

Oh ! how that touch enchanted ! 

Spring may bloom, but she we loved 

Ne'er shall feel its sweetness ! 
Time, that once so fleetly moved, 

Now hath lost its fleetness. 
Years were days, when here she stray'd, 

Days were moments near her ; 
Heaven ne'er form'd a blighter maid, 

Nor Pity wept a dearer ! 
Here 's the bower she loved so much, 

And the tree she planted ; 
Here 's the harp she used to touch— 

Oh ! how that touch enchanted ! 



HOLY BE THE PILGRIM'S SLEEP 

Holy be the Pilgrim's sleep, 

From the dreams of terror free ; 
And may all, who wake to weep, 
Rest to-night as sweet as he ! 
Hark ! hark ! did I hear a vesper swell ? 

No, no — it is my loved Pilgrim's prayer : 
No, no — 't was but the convent bell, 
That tolls upon the midnight air. 
Holy be the Pilgrim's sleep ! 
Now, now again the voice I hear ; 
Some holy man is wand'ring near. 

O Pilgrim ! where hast thou been roaming? 
Dark is the way, and midnight's coming. 
Stranger, I've been o'er moor and mountain, 
To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain. 
And, Pilgrim, say, where art thou going ? 
Dark is the way, the winds are blowing. 
Weary with wand'ring, weak, I falter, 
To breathe my vows at Agnes' altar. 
Strew, then, oh ! strew his bed of rushes ; 
Here he shall rest till morning blushes. 

Peace to them whose days are done, 

Death their eyelids closing; 
Hark ! the burial-rite 's begun — 

'T is time for our reposing. 

Here, then, my Pilgrim's course is o'er : 
'Tis my master! 'tis my master! Welccma hew 
once more ; 

Come to our shed — all toil is over; 

Pilgrim no more, but knight and lover 



372 MOORE'S WORKS. 






Oh ! how lorn, how lost would prove 
Thy wretched victim's fate, 




I CAN NO LONGER STIFLE. 




I can no longer stifle, 


If, when deceived in love, 




How much 1 long to rifle 


He could not fly to hate ! 




That little part 
They call the heart 










Of you, you lovely trifle ! 






You can no longer doubt it, 


LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP. 




So let me be about it ; 


Light sounds the harp when the combat is over— 




Or on my word, 


When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom — 




And by the Lord, 


When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover 




I '11 trv to do without it. . 


And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume. 
But, when the foe returns, 




This pretty thing's as light, Sir, 


Again the hero burns ; 




As any paper kite, Sir, 


High flames the sword in his hand once more ; 




And here and there, 


The clang of mingling arms 




And God knows where, 


Is then the sound that charms, 




She takes her wheeling flight, Sir. 


And brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets roar. 




Us lovers, to amuse us, 


Oh ! then comes the harp, when the combat is over— 




Unto her tail she nooses ; 


When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom — 




There, hung like bobs 


When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover 




Of straw, or nobs, 


And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume. 




She whisks us where she chuses. 


Light went the harp when the War-god, reclinmg, 
Lay lull'd on the white arm of Beauty to rest — 










When round his rich armour the myrtle hung twining, 




I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR. 


And flights of young doves made his helmet their 




I saw the moon rise clear 


nest. 




O'er hills and vales of snow, 


But, when the battle came, 




Nor told my fleet rein-deer 


The hero's eye breathed flame : 




The track I wish'd to go. 


Soon from his neck the white arm was flung, 




But quick he bounded forth; 


While to his wakening ear 




For well my rein-deer knew 


No other sounds were dear, 




I 've but one path on earth — 


But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets supg. 




The path which leads to you. 


But then came the light harp, when danger was ended, 
And Beauty once more lull'd the War-god to restj 




The gloom that winter cast 


When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended, 




How soon the heart forgets ! 


And flights of young doves made his helmet their 




When summer brings, at last, 


nest. 




The sun that never sets. 
So dawn'd my love for you ; 










Thus chasing every pain, 






Than summer sun more true, 


LITTLE MARY'S EYE. 




'T will never set again. 


Little Mary's eye 

Is roguish, and all that, Sir ; 






But her little tongue 






Is quite too full of chat, sir 




JOYS THAT PASS AWAY. 


Since her eye can speak 




Joys that pass away like this, 


Enough to tell her blisses, 




Alas ! are purchased dear, 


If she stir her tongue, 




If every beam of bliss 


Why — stop her mouth with kisses 




Is follow'd by a tear. 


Oh ! the little girls, 




Fare thee well ! oh, fare thee well ! 


Wily, warm, and winning ; 




Soon, too soon thou 'st broke the spell. 


When the angels tempt us to it, 




Oh ! I ne'er can love again 


Who can keep from sinning 1 




The girl whose faithless art 






Could break so dear a chain, 


Nanny's beaming eye 




Ana with it break my heart. 


Looks as warm as any ; 
But her cheek was pale — 




Once, when truth was in those eyes, 


Well-a-day, poor Nanny ! 




How beautiful they shone ; 


Nanny, in the field, 




But now that lustre flies, 


She pluck'd a little posie, 




For truth, alas ! is gone. 


And Nanny's pallid cheek 




Fare thee well ! oh, fare thee well ! 


Soon grew sleek and rosy. 




How I 've loved my hate shall tell 


Oh ! the little girls, etc 




• 







Sue, the pretty nun, 

Prays with warm emotion ; 
Sweetly rolls her eye 

In love or in devotion. 
If her pious heart 

Softens to relieve you, 
She gently shares the crime, 

With, " Oh ! may God forgive you !" 
Oh ! the little girls, 

Wily, warm, and winning ; 
When angels tempt us to it, 

Who can keep from sinning ? 



LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL. 

Young Love found a Dial once, in a dark shade, 
Where man ne'er had wander'd nor sun-beam play'd ; 
"Why thus in darkness lie ?" whisper'd young Love, 
" Thou, whose gay hours should in sun-shine move." 
"I ne'er," said the Dial, "have seen the warm sun, 
So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one." 

Then Love took the Dial away from the shade, 
And placed her where Heaven's beam warmly play'd. 
There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye, 
While, all mark'd with sun-shine, her hours flew by. 
" Oh ! how," said the Dial, " can any fair maid, 
That 's born to be shone upon, rest in the shade ?" 

But night now comes on, and the sun-beam 's o'er, 
And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more. 
Then cold and neglected, while bleak rain and winds 
Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds 
That Love had but number'd a few sunny hours, 
And left the remainder to darkness and showers ! 



LOVE AND TIME. 

'T is said — but whether true or not 

Let bards declare who 've seen 'em— 
That Love and Time have only got 

One pair of wings between 'em. 
In courtship's first delicious hour, 

The boy full oft can spare 'em. 
So, loitering in his lady's bower, 

He lets the gray-beard wear 'em. 
Then is Time's hour of play ; 
Oh ! how he flies away ! 

But short the moments, short as bright, 

When he the wings can borrow ; 
If Time to-day has had his flight, 

Love takes his turn to-morrow. 
Ah ! Time and Love ! your change ia then 

The saddest and most trying, 
When one begins to limp again, 

And t' other takes to flying. 
Then is Love's hour to stray ; 
Oh ! how he flies away ! 

But there 's a nymph — whose chains I feel, 

And bless the silken fetter — 
Who knows — the dear one ! — how to deal 

With Love and Time much better. 
So well she checks their wanderings, 

So peacefully she pairs 'em, 



That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings, 

And Time for ever wears 'em. 
This is Time's holiday ; 

Oh! how he flies away! 



LOVE, MY MARY, DWELLS WITH THEE. 

Love, my Mary, dwells with thee ; 
On thy cheek, his bed I see. 
No — that cheek is pale with care ; 
Love can find no roses there. 
'T is not on the cheek of rose 
Love can find the best repose : 
In my heart his home thou 'It see ; 
There he lives, and lives for thee. 

Love, my Mary, ne'er can roam, 
While he makes that eye his home. 
No — the eye with sorrow dim 
Ne'er can be a home for him. 
Yet, 't is not in beaming eyes 
Love for ever warmest lies : 
In my heart his home thou 'It see , 
There he lives, and lives for thee. 



LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER CLOUD 
Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us — 
Youth may wither, but feeling will last ; 
And the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us, 
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. 
Oh ! if to love thee more 
Each hour I number o'er— 
If this a passion be 
Worthy of thee, 
Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. 

Charms may wither, but feeling shall last : 
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee, 
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. 

Rest, dear bosom ! no sorrows shall pain thee, 

Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal ; 
Beam, bright eyelid ! no weeping shall stain thee, 
Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel. 
Oh ! if there be a charm 
In love, to banish harm — 
If pleasure's truest spell 
Be to love well, 
Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. 

Charms may wither, but feeling shall last : 
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee, 
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast 



LOVE, WAND'RING THROUGH THE 

GOLDEN MAZE. 
Love, wand'ring through the golden maz$ 

Of my beloved's hair, 
Traced every lock with fond delays, 

And, doting, linger'd there. 
And soon he found 't were vain to fly , 

His heart was close confined, 
And every curlet was a tie — 

A chain by beauty twined 



374 



MOORE'S WORKS 



MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH. 

THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY. 

Merrily every bosom boundeth, 

Merrily, oh ! merrily, oh ! 
Where the Song of Freedom soundeth, 
Merrily, oh ! merrily, oh ! 
There the warrior's arms 

Shed more splendour, 

There the maiden's charms 

Shine more tender — 

Every joy the land surroundeth, 

Merrily, oh ! merrily, oh ! 

Wearily every bosom pineth, 

Wearily, oh ! wearily, oh ! 

Where the bond of slavery twineth, 

Wearily, oh ! wearily, oh ! 

There the warrior's dart 

Hath no fleetness, 
There the maiden's heart 
Hath no sweetness — 
Every flower of life declineth, 
Wearily, oh ! wearily, oh ! 

Cheerily then from hill and valley, 

Cheerily, oh ! cheerily, oh ! 

Like your native fountains sally, 

Cheerily, oh ! cheerily, oh ! 

If a glorious death, 

Won by bravery, 

Sweeter be than breath 

Sigh'd in slavery, 

Round the flag of Freedom rally, 

Cheerily, oh I cheerily, oh ! 



NOW LET THE WARRIOR. 

Now let the warrior plume his steed, 

And wave his sword afar ; 
For the men of the East this day shall bleed, 

And the sun shall blush with war. 
Victory sits on the Christian's helm 

To guide her holy band : 
The Knight of the Cross this day shall whelm 

The men of the Pagan land. 

Oh ! bless'd who in the battle dies ! 
God will enshrine him in the skies ! 
Now let the warrior plume his steed, 

And wave his sword afar, 
For the men of the East this day shall bleed, 

And the sun shall blush with war. 



Chill falls the rain, night winds are blowing, 
Dreary and dark 's the way we 're going. 

Fair Lady ! rest till morning blushes — ■ 
I '11 strew for thee a bed of rushes. 
Oh ! stranger ! when my beads I 'm counting, 
I '11 bless thy name at Agnes' fountain. 
Then, Pilgrim, turn, and rest thy sorrow ; 
Thou 'It go to Agnes' shrine to-morrow. 
Good stranger, when my beads I 'm telling, 
My saint shall bless thy leafy dwelling. 
Strew, then, oh-! strew our bed of rushes; 
Here we must rest till morning blushes. 



OH, LADY FAIR ! 

On, Lady fair ! where art thou roaming ? 

The sun has sunk, the night is coming. 

Stranger, I go o'er moor and mountain, 

To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain. 

And who is the man, with his white locks flowing? 

Oh, Lady fair ! where is he going ? 

A wand' ring Pilgrim, weak, I falter, 

To tfV my beads at Agnes' altar. 



OH! REMEMBER THE TIME. 

THE CASTILIAN MAID. 

Oh ! remember the time, in La Mancha's shades, 

When our moments so blissfully flew ; 
When you cali'd me the flower of Castilian maids, 

And I blush'd to be cali'd so by you. 
When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille, 

And to dance to the light castanet ; 
Oh ! never, dear youth, let you roam where you will, 

The delight of those moments forget. 

They tell me, you lovers from Erin's green isle 

Every hour a new passion can feel, 
And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile, 

You'll forget the poor maid of Castile. 
But they know not how brave in the battle you are, 

Or they never could think you would rove ; 
For't is always the spirit most gallant in war 

That is fondest and truest in love ! 



OH ! SEE THOSE CHERRIES. 

Oh ! see those cherries — though once so glowing, 

They 've lain too long on the sun-bright wall ; 
And mark ! already their bloom is going ; 

Too soon they '11 wither, too soon they '11 fall. 
Once, caught by their blushes, the light bird flew 

round, 
Oft on their ruby lips leaving love's wound 
But now he passes them, ah ! too knowing 
To taste wither'd cherries, when fresh may be found 

Old Time thus fleetly his course is running ; 

If bards were not moral, how maids would go 
wrong ! 
And thus thy beauties, now sunn'd and sunning, 

Would wither if left on the rose-tree too long. 
Then love while thou 'rt lovely — e'en I should be 

glad 
So sweetly to save thee from ruin so sad ; 
But, oh ! delay not — we bards are too cunning 
To sigh for old beauties when young may be had. 



OH! SOON RETURN! 

The white sail caught the evening ray, 
The wave beneath us seem'd to burn, 



BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 



375 



When all my weeping love could say 

Was, " Oh ! soon return !" 
Through many a clime our ship was driven, 

O'er many a billow rudely thrown ; 
Now chill'd beneath a northern heaven, 

Now sunn'd by summer's zone : 
Ye'; still, where'er our course we lay, 

When evening bid the west wave burn, 
I thought I heard her faintly say, 

" Oh ! soon return ! — Oh ! soon return !" 

If ever yet my bosom found 

Its thoughts one moment turn'd from thee, 
*T was when the combat raged around, 

And brave men look'd to me. 
But though 'mid battle's wild alarm 

Love's gentle power might not appear, 
He gave to glory's brow the charm 

Which made even danger dear. 
And then, when victory's calm came o'er 

The hearts where rage had ceased to burn, 
I heard that farewell voice once more, 
Oh ! soon return ! — Oh ! soon return !" 



s 



OH! YES, SO WELL. 
On ! yes, so well, so tenderly 

Thou 'rt loved, adored by me, 
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, 

W T ere worthless without thee. 
Though brimm'd with blisses, pure and rare, 

Life's cup before me lay, 
Unless thy love were mingled there, 

I 'd spurn the draught away. 
Oh ! yes, so well, so tenderly 

Thou 'rt loved, adored by me, 
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, 

Are worthless without thee. 

Without thy smile how joylessly 

All glory's meeds I see ! 
And even the wreath of victory 

Must owe its bloom to thee. 
Those worlds, for which the conqueror sighs, 

For me have now no charms ; 
My only world 's thy radiant eyes— 

My throne those circling arms ! 
Oh ! yes, so well, so tenderly 

Thou 'rt loved, adored by me, 
Whole realms of light and liberty 

Were worthless without thee. 



Like the shadows of morning, Love lessens away, 
While Friendship, like those at the closing of day, 
Will linger and lengthen as Life's sun goes down. 



OH! YES, WHEN THE BLOOM. 

Oh ! yes, when the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er, 
He' 11 turn into friendship that feels no decay ; 

And, though Time may take from him the wings he 
once wore, 

The charms that remain will be bright as before, 
And he '11 lose but his young trick of flying away. 

Then let it console thee, if Love should not stay, 
That Friendship our last happy moments will 
crow" 



ONE DEAR SMILE. 

Couldst thou look as dear as when 

First I sigh'd for thee ; 
Couldst thou make me feel again 
Every wish I breathed thee then, 

Oh ! how blissful life would be ! 
Hopes, that now beguiling leave me, 

Joys, that lie in slumber cold — 
All would wake, couldst thou but give me 

One dear smile like those of old. 

Oh ! there 's nothing left us now, 

But to mourn the past ; 
Vain, was every ardent vow — 
Never yet did Heaven allow 

Love so warm, so wild, to last. • 

Not even hope could now deceive me— 

Life itself looks dark and cold : 
Oh ! thou never more canst give me 

One dear smile like those of old 



POH, DERMOT! GO ALONG WITH YOUR 
GOSTER. 

Poh, Dermot ! go along with your go3ter, 

You might as well pray at a jig, 
Or teach an old cow Pater Noster, 

Or whistle Moll Roe to a pig ! 
Arrah, child ! do you think I'm a blockhead, 

And not the right son of my mother, 
To put nothing at all in one pocket, 

And not half so much in the other? 
Poh, Dermot ! etc. 

Any thing else I can do for you, 

Keadh mille faltha, and welcome, 
Put up an Ave or two for you, 

Fear'd that you'd ever ro hell come. 
If you confess you're a rogue, 

I will turn a deaf ear, and not care for't,' 
Bid you put pease in your brogue, 

But just tip you a hint to go barefoot. 
Then get along with, etc 

If you've the whiskey in play, 

To oblige you, I'll come take a smack of it , 
Stay with you all night and day, 

Ay, and twenty-four hours to the back of it 
Oh ! whiskey 's a papist, God save it ! 

The beads are upon it completely ; 
But I think before ever we'd leave it, 

We'd make it a heretic neatly. 
Then get along with, etc. 

If you're afear'd of a Banshee, 

Or Leprochauns are not so civil, dear, 

Let Father Luke show his paunch, he 
Will frighten them all to the devil, dea? 



l»«e 



. __: 

376 MOORE'S WORKS. 


It 's I that can hunt them like ferrets, 


But evening came, o'ershading 


And lay them without any fear, gra; 


The glories of the sky, 


But for whiskey, and that sort of spirits, 


Like faith and fondness fading 


Why them — I would rather lay here,' gra. 


From Passion's alter'd eye. 


Then get along with, etc. 
SEND THE BOWL ROUND MERRILY. 


Thus love declines — cold eve of love ! 


THE PROBABILITY. 


Send the bowl round merrily, 


My heart is united to Chloe's for ever, 


Laughing, singing, drinking; 


No time shall the link of their tenderness sever, 


Toast it, toast it cheerily — 


And, if Love be the parent of joy and of pleasure, 


Here 's to the devil with thinking ! 


Sure Chloe and I shall be blest beyond measure. 


Oh ! for the round of pleasure, 




With sweetly-smiling lasses — 


Come, tell me, my girl, what 's the sweetest of blisses T 


Glasses o'erflowing their measure, 


"I'll show you," she cries, and she gives me swee 


With hearts as full as our glasses. 


kisses ; 


Send the bowl round merrily, 


Ah, Clo ! if that languishing eye 's not a traitor 


Laughing, singing, drinking ; 


It tells me you know of a bliss that is greater. 


Toast it, toast it cheerily — 


"Indeed and I do not ;" — then softly she blushes, 


Here 's to the devil with thinking ! 


And her bosom the warm tint of modesty flushes— 


Once I met with a funny lass, 


" I'm sure if I knew it, I'd certainly show it, 


Oh ! I lo zed her dearly ! 


But, Damon, now Damon, dear, may be you know it ! 


Left for her my bonny glass — 
Faith ! I died for her — nearly. 






But she proved damn'd uncivil, 


THE SONG OF WAR. 


And thought to peck like a hen, sir ; 
So I pitch'd the jade to the devil, 


The song of war shall echo through our mountains, 
Till not one hateful link remains 


And took to my glass again, sir. 
Then send the bowl, etc. 


Of slavery's lingering chains — 
Till not one tyrant tread our plains, 


Now I'm turn'd a rover, 


Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains. 


In love with every petticoat ; 


No ! never till that glorious day 


No matter whom it may cover, 


Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, 


Or whether it 's Jenny's or Betty's coat ; 


Or hear, oh Peace ! thy welcome lay 


And, if the girls can put up 


Resounding through her sunny mountains. 


With any good thing in pieces, 
My heart I'll certainly cut up, 


The song of war shall echo through our mountains, 
Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say, 


And share it with all young misses. 


"Your cloud of foes hath pass'd away, 
And Freedom comes with new-born ray, 


Then send the bowl, etc. 


A bumper round to the pretty ones ! 


To gild your vines and light your fountains." 


Here 's to the girl with the blue eyes ! 


Oh ! never till that glorious day 


Here 's to her with the jetty ones, 


Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, 


Where the languishing dew lies ! 


Or hear, oh Peace ! thy welcome lay 


Could all such hours as this is 


Resounding through her sunny mountains. 


Be summ'd in one little measure, 
I'd live a short life of blisses, 






And die in a surfeit of pleasure! 


THE TABLET OF LOVE. 


Then send the bowl, etc. 






You bid me be happy, and bid me adieu 




Can happiness live when absent from you ? 






Will sleep on my eyelids e'er sweetly alight, 


THE DAY OF LOVE. 


When greeted no more by a tender good night? 


The beam of morning trembling 


Oh, never ! for deep is the record enshrined ; 


Stole o'er the mountain brook 


Thy look and thy voice will survive in my mind : 


With timid ray resembling 


Though age may the treasures of memory remove, 


Affection's early look. 


Unfading shall flourish the Tablet of Love. 


Thus love begins — sweet morn of love! 


Through life's winding valley — in anguish, in rest, 


The noon-tide ray ascended, 


Exalted in joy, or by sorrow depress'd — 


And o'er the valley stream 


From its place in the mirror that lies on my heart, 


Diffused a glow as splendid 


Thine image shall never one moment depart. 


As passion's riper dream. 


When time, life, and all that poor mortals hold dear 


Thus love expands — warm noon of love ! 


Like visions, like dreams, shall at last disappear, 




Though raised among seraphs to realms above, 
Unfading shall flourish the Tablet of Lovo 

""■ "■•■■■ 


1 Tutting his hand on his paunch. 



BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 



377 



THE YOUNG ROSE. 

The young rose which I give thee, so dewy and bright 
Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night 
Who oft by the moon o'er her blushes hath hung, 
And thrill'd every leaf with the wild lay he sung. 

Oh ! take thou this young rose, and let her life be 
Prolong'd by the breath she will borrow from thee ! 
For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill, 
Sbe'il think the sweet night-bird is courting her still. 



WHEN IN LANGUOR SLEEPS THE 
HEART. 

When in languor sleeps the heart, 
Love can wake it with his dart ; 
W T hen the mind is dull and dark, 
Love can light it with his spark. 

Come, oh ! come then, let us haste, 
All the bliss of iove to taste; 
Let us love both night and day, 
Let us love our lives aw T ay ! 

And for hearts from loving free 
(Tf indeed such hearts there be,) 
May they ne'er the rapture prove 
Of the smile from lips we love. 



WHEN 'MIDST THE GAY I MEET. 
When 'midst the gay I meet 

That blessed smile of thine, 
Though still on me it turns most sweet, 

I scarce can call it mine : 
But when to me alone 

Your secret tears you show, 
Oh ! then I feel those tears my own, 

And claim them as - they flow. 
Then still with bright looks bless 

The gay, the cold, the free ; 
Give smiles to those who love you less, 

But keep your tears for me. 

The snow on Jura's steep 

Can smile with many a beam, 
Yet still in chains of coldness sleep, 

How bright soe'er it seem. 
But, when some deep-felt ray, 

Whose touch is fire, appears, 
Oh ! then the smile is warm'd away, 

And, melting, turns to tears. 
Then still with bright looks bless 

The gay, the cold, the free ; 
Give smiles to those who love you less, 

But keep your tears for me. 



WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS. 

When twilight dews are falling soft 

Upon the rosy sea, love !• 
I watch the star, whose beam so oft 

Has lighted me to thee, love ! 
3 B 



And thou too, on that orb so clear, 

Ah ! dost thou gaze at even, 
And think, though lost for ever here, 

Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven ? 

There 's not a garden walk I tread, 

There 's not a flower I see, love ! 
But brings to mind some hope that 's fled, 

Some joy I've lost with thee, love ! 
And still I wish that hour was near, 

When, friends and foes forgiven, 
The pains, the ills we've wept through here, 

May turn to smiles in heaven ! 



WILL YOU COME TO THE BOWER? 

Will you come to the bower I have shaded for you? 
Our bed shall be roses all spangled with dew. 
Will you, will you, will you, will you 
Come to the bower ? 

There, under the bower, on roses you'll lie, 
With a blush on your cheek, but a smile in your eye. 
Will you, will you, will you, will you 
Smile, my beloved ? 

But the roses we press shall not rival your lip, 
Nor the dew be so sweet as the kisses we'll sip 
Will you, will you, will you, will you 
Kiss me, my love ? 

And oh ! for the joys that are sweeter than dew 
From languishing roses, or kisses from you. 
Will you, will you, will you, will you, 
Won't you, my love ? 



YOUNG JESSICA, 
Young Jessica sat all the day, 

In love-dreams languishingly pining, 
Her needle bright neglected lay, 

Like truant genius idly shining. 
Jessy, 't is in idle hearts 

That love and mischief are most nimble « 
The safest shield against the darts 

Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble. 

A child who with a magnet play'd, 

And knew its winning ways so wily, 
The magnet near the needle laid, 

And laughing said, " We '11 steal it slily.* 
The needle, having nought to do, 

Was pleased to let the magnet wheedle, 
Till closer still the tempter drew, 

And off, at length, eloped the needle. 

Now, had this needle turn'd its eye 

To some gay Ridicule's construction, 
It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie, 

Nor felt a magnet's sly seduction. 
Girls, would you keep tranquil hearts, 

Your snowy fingers must be nimble, 
The safest shield against the darts 

Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble. 



378 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



THE RABBINICAL ORIGIN OF WOMEN. 
They tell us that Woman was made of a rib 

Just pick'd from a corner so snug in the side ; 
But the Rabbkis swear to you this is a fib, 

And 't was not so at all that the sex was supplied. 
Derry down, down, down derry down. 

For old Adam was fashion'd, the first of his kind, 
With a tail like a monkey, full yard and a span; 

And when Nature cut off this appendage behind, 
Why — then woman was made of the tail of the Man, 
Derry down, down, down derry down. 

If such is the tie between women and men, 

The ninny who weds is a pidful elf; 
For he takes to his tail, like an idiot, again, 

And makes a most damnable ape of himself! 
Derry down, down, down derry down. 

Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail, 
Every husband remembers the original plan, 

And, knowing his wife is no more than his tail, 
Why — he leaves her behind him as much as he can. 
Derry down, down, down derry down. 



FAREWELL, BESSY! 

Sweetest love ! I '11 not forget thee, 

Time shall only teach my heart 
Fonder, warmer, to regret thee, 
Lovely, gentle as thou art ! 
Farewell, Bessy ! 
We may meet again. 

Yes, oh yes ! again we meet, love ; 

And repose our hearts at last ; 

Oh, sure 't will then be sweet, love ! 

Calm to think on sorrows past. 

Farewell, Bessy! 

We may meet again. 

Yet I feel my heart is breaking 

When I think I stray from thee, 
Round the world that quiet seeking 
Which I fear is not for me. 
Farewell, Bessy ! 
We may meet again. 

Calm to peace thy lover's bosom- 
Can it, dearest ! must it be ? 
Thou within an hour shalt lose him, 
He for ever loses thee ! 
Farewell, Bessy ! 
Yet oh ! not for ever. 



>" 



Then why, dearest ! so long • 

Let the sweet moments fly over ? 
Though now, blooming and young, 

Thou hast me devoutly thy lover, 
Yet time from both, in his silent lapse, 

Some treasure may steal or borrow ; 
Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, 

Or I less in love to-morrow. 



TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS. 

To-dav, dearest ! is ours ; 

Why should Love carelessly lose it ? 
This life shines or lowers 

Just as we, weak mortals, use it. 
'T is time enough, when its flowers decay, 

To think of the thorns of Sorrow ; 
And Joy, if left on the stem to-day, 

Mav wither before to-morrow. 



WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS 

When on the lip the sigh delays, 

As if 't would linger there for ever ; 
When eyes would give the world to gaze 

Yet still look down, and venture never ; 
When, though with fairest nymphs we rove, 

There 's one we dream of more than any 
If all this is not real love, 

'T is something wondrous like it, Fanny ! 

To think and ponder, when apart, 

On all we 've got to say at meeting; 
And yet w T hen near, with heart to heart, 

Sit mute, and listen to their beating : 
To see but one bright object move, 

The only moon, where stars are many — 
If all this is not downright love, 

I prithee say what is, my Fanny ! 

When Hope foretels the brightest, best, 

Though Reason on the darkest reckons ; 
When Passion drives us to the west, 

Though Prudence to the eastward beckons ; 
When all turns round, below, above, 

And our own heads the most of any — 
If this is not stark, staring love, 

Then you and I are sages, Fanny. 



HERE, TAKE MY HEART. 

Here, take my heart, 't will be safe in thy keeping 
Whiie I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea; 

Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping, i 

What need I care, so my heart is with thee ? X 

If, in the race we are destined to run, love, 
They who have light hearts the happiest be — 

Happier still must be they who have none, love, 
And that will be my case when mine is with thee 

No matter where I may now be a rover, 
No matter how many bright eyes I see ; 

Should Venus' self come and ask me to love her, 
I'd tell her I could not — my heart is with thee ! 

There let it lie, growing fonder and fonder — 
And should Dame Fortune turn truant to me, 

Why, — let her go — I 've a treasure beyond her, 
As long as my heart 's out at interest with thee ! 



X 



OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME. 

Oh ! call it by some better name, 
For Friendship is too cold. 



BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. 



379 



And Love is now a worldly flame, 
Whose shrine must be of gold ; 

And passion, like the sun at noon, 
That burns o'er all he sees, 

Awhile as warm, will set as soon, — 
Oh ! call it none of these. 

Imagine something purer far, 

More free from stain of clay, 
Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are, 

Yet human still as they : 
As if thy lip, for love like this, 

No mortal word can frame, 
Go, ask of angels what it is, 

And call it by that name ! 



POOR WOUNDED HEART ! 

Poor wounded heart ! 
Poor wounded heart, farewell ! 
Thy hour is come, 
Thy hour of rest is come ; 
Thou soon wilt reach thy home, 
Poor wounded heart, farewell ! 
The pam thou 'It feel in breaking 

Less bitter far will be, 
Than that long, deadly course of aching, 
This life has been to thee — 
Poor breaking heart, poor breaking heart, farewell ! 

There — broken heart, 
Poor broken heart, farewell ! 
The pang is o'er — 
The parting pang is o'er, 
Thou now wilt bleed no more, 
Poor broken heart, farewell ! 
No rest for thee but dying, 

Like waves whose strife is past, 
On death's cold shore thus early lying, 
Thou sleep'st in peace at last — 
Poor broken heart, poor broken heart, farewell '. 



THE EAST INDIAN. 

Come May, with all thy flowers, 

Thy sweetly-scented thorn, 
Thy cooling evening showers, 

Thy fragrant breath at morn : 
When May-flies haunt the willow, 

When May-buds tempt the bee, 
Then o'er the shining billow 

My love will come to me. 

From Eastern Isles she 's winging 

Through wat'ry wilds her way, 
And on her cheek is bringing 

The bright sun's orient ray : 
Oh ! come and court her hither, 

Ye breezes mild and warm — 
One winter's gale would wither 

So soft, so pure a form. 

The fields where she was straying 
Are blest with endless light, 



With zephyrs always playing 
Through gardens always bright. 

Then now, oh May ! be sweeter 
That ere thou 'st been before ; 

Let sighs from roses meet her 
When she comes near our shore. 



PALE BROKEN FLOWER ! 
Pale broken flower ! what art can now recover thee 
Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath — 
In vain the sun-beams seek 
To warm that faded cheek ! 
The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell ovei 
thee, 
Now are but tears, to weep thy early death ! 

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her, 
Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou ; 
In vain the smiles of all 
■Like sun-beams round her fall — 
The only smile that could from death awaken her 
That smile, alas ! is gone to others now 



THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE, 

Being weary of love, I flew to the grove, 

And chose me a tree of the fairest ; 
Saying, " Pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, 

I'll worship each bud that thou bearest. 

For the hearts of this world are hollow, 
And fickle the smiles we follow ; 
And 't is sweet, when all their witcheries pall, 

To have a pure love to fly to : 
So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, 

And the only one now I shall sigh to." 

When the beautiful hue of thy cheek through the 
dew 
Of morning is bashfully peeping, 
" Sweet tears," I shall say v as I brush them away,) 
At least there 's no art in this weeping." 

Although thou shouldest die to-morrow, 
'T will not be from pain or sorrow, 
And the thorns of thy stem are not like them 

With which hearts wound each other : 
So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be 
And I '11 ne'er again sigh to another. 



SHINE OUT, STARS ! 

Shine out, Stars ! let heaven assemble 

Round us every festal ray, 
Lights that move not, lights that tremble, 

All to grace this eve of May. 
Let the flower-beds all lie waking, 

And the odours shut up there, 
From their downy prisons breaking, 

Fly abroad through sea and air. 

And would Love too bring his sweetness, 
With our other joys to weave, 



380 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Oh, what glory, what complete 

Then would crown this bright May eve, 
Shine out, Stars ! let night assemble 

Round us every festal ray, 
Lights that move not, lights that tremble, 

To adorn this eve of May. 



THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA. 

Oh ' the joys of our evening posada, 

When, resting at the close of day, 
We, young muleteers of Grenada, 

Sit and sing the last sunshine away ! 
So blithe, that even the slumbers 

Which hung around us seem gone, 
Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers 

Again beguile them on. 

Then, as each to his favourite sultana 

In sleep is still breathing the sigh, 
The name of some black-eyed Tirana 

Half breaks from our lips as we lie. 
Then, with morning's rosy twinkle, 

Again we 're up and gone — 
While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle 

Beguiles the rough way on. 



TELL HER, OH TELL HER. 

Tell her, oh tell her, the lute she left lying 
Beneath the green arbour, is still lying there 

Breezes, like lovers, around it are sighing, 
But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer 

Tell her, oh tell her, the tree that, in going, 
Beside the green arbour she playfully set, 

Lovely as ever is blushing and blowing, 
And not a bright leaflet has fallen from it yet. 

So while away from that arbour forsaken, 
The maiden is wandering, oh ! let her be 



True as the lute that no sighing can waken, 
And blooming for ever unchanged as the tree 



NIGHTS OF MUSIC. 

Nights of music, nights of loving, 

Lost too soon, remember'd long, 
When we went by moon-light roving, 

Hearts all love, and lips ail song. 
When this faithful lute recorded 

All my spit it felt to thee, 
And that smile the song rewarded, 

Worth whole years of fame to me ! 

Nights of song, and nights of splendour, 

Fill'd with joys too sweet to last — 
Joys that, like your star-light tender, 

While tney shone, no shadow cast ; 
Though all other happy hours 

From my fading memory fly, 
Of that star-light, of those bowers, 

Not a beam, a leaf, shall die ! 



OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE. 
Our first young love resembles 

That short but brilliant ray, 
Which smiles, and weeps, and trembles 

Through April's earliest day. 
No, no — all life before us, 

Howe'er its lights may play, 
Can shed no lustre o'er us 

Like that first April ray. 

Our summer sun may squander 

A blaze serener, grander, 
Our autumn beam may, like a dream 

Of heaven, die calm away : 
But no — let life before us 

Bring all the light it may, 
'T will shed no lustre o'er us 

Like that first trembling ray 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A MELOLOGUE 

UPON* NATIONAL MUSIC. 



These verses were written for a Benefit at the 
Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, 
with a degree of success, which they owed solely to 
her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote 
them in haste ; and it very rarely happens that 
poetry, which has cost but little labour to the writer, 
is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. 
Under this impression, I should not have published 
them if they had not found their way into some of 
the newspapers, with such an addition of errors to 
their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to 
limit their responsibility to those faults alone which 
really belong to them. 

With respect to the title which I have invented for 
this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the 
Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of 
the Roman senate for using "the outlandish term 
monopoly" But the truth is, having written the 
Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I 
thought that an unintelligible word of this kind 
would not be without its attraction for the multitude, 
with whom, "if 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek." 
To some of my readers, however, it may not be 
superfluous to say, that, by " Melologue," I mean 
that mixture of recitation and music, which is fre- 
quently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode 
on the Passions, and of which the most striking ex- 
ample I can remember is the prophetic speech of 
Toad in tke Athaiie of Racine. 

T. M. 



There breathes a language, known and felt 
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone; 
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt, 
That language of the soul is felt and known. 
From those meridian plains, 
Where oft, of old, on some high tower, 
The soft Peruvian pour'd his midnight strains, 
And call'd his distant love with such sweet power, 

That, when she heard the lonely lay, 
Not worlds could keep her from his arms away ; ! 
To the bleak climes of polar night, 
Where, beneath a sunless sky, 
The Lapland lover bids his rein-deer fly, 
And sings along the lengthening waste of snow, 



1 "A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian 
woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her 
to his hotne, but she cried out, ' For God's sake, Sir, let me 
go ; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me 
with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for 
love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my 
husband.' "—Garcilasso de la Vega, in Sir Paul Rycaut's 
translation 



As blithe as if the blessed light 

Of vernal Phoebus burn'd upon his brow 

Oh Music ! thy celestial claim 

Is si ill resistless, still the same ; 

And, faithful as the mighty sea 

To the pale star that o'er its realm presides, 

The spell-bound tides 

Of human passion rise and fall for thee ! 

Greek Air. 
List ! 't is a Grecian maid that sings, 
While, from Hyssus' silvery springs, 
She draws the cool lymph in her graceful uraj 
And by her side, in music's charm dissolving, 
Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, 
Dreams of bright days that never can return ! 
When Athens nursed her olive-bough, 

With hands by tyrant power unchain'd, 
And braided for the muses' brow 

A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd. 
When heroes trod each classic field 

Where coward feet now faintly falter ; 

When every arm was Freedom's shield, 

And every heart was Freedom's altar ! 

Flourish of Trumpet 
Hark ! 't is the sound that charms 
The war-steed's waking ears ! — 
Oh ! many a mother folds her arms 
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears ; 
And, though her fond heart sink with fears, 
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound 
With valour's fever at the sound ! 
See ! from his native hills afar 
The rude Helvetian flies to war ; 
Careless for what, for whom he fights, 
For slave or despot, wrongs, or rights, ; 

A conqueror oft — a hero never — 
Yet lavish of his life-blood still, 
As if 't were like his mountain rill, 
And gush'd for ever ! 

Oh Music ! here, even here, 
Amid this thoughtless, wild career, 
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous powex 

There is an air, which oft among the rocks 
Of his own loved land, at evening hour, 
Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe Jieif 
flocks ; 
Oh ! every note of it would thnll his mind 
With tenderest thoughts — would bring around hia 
knees 
The rosy children whom he left behind, 
And fill each little angel eye 
With speaking tears, that ask him why 
He wander'd from his hut for scenes like these n 
Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar ; 

Sweet notes of home — of love — are all he hears , 



382 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before, 
Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears ! 

Swiss Air — "Ram des Vetches" 
Rut, wake the trumpet's blast again, 
And rouse the ranks of warrior-men ! 
Oh War ! when truth thy arm employs, 
And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm, 
'T is then thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form, 

And, like Heaven's lightning, sacredly destroys ! 
Nor, Music ! through thy breathing sphere, 
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear 
Of Him who made all harmony, 
Than the bless'd sound of fetters breaking, 
And the first hymn that man, awaking 
From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty ! 

Spanish Chorus. 

Hark ! from Spain, indignant Spain, 
Rursts the bold, enthusiast strain, 
Like morning's music on the air ! 
And seems, in every note, to swear, 
Ry Saragossa's ruin'd streets, 

Ry brave Gerona's deathful story, 
That, while one Spaniard's life-blood beats, 

That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory ! 

Spanish Air — " Ya Desperto." 

Rut ah ! if vain the patriot's zeal, 
If neither valour's force, nor wisdom's light 

Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal 
Which shuts so close the book of Europe's right — 
What song shall then in sadness tell 

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, 
Of buried hopes, remember'd well, 

Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded ? 
What Muse shall mourn the breathless brave, 

In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine? 
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? 
Oh Erin ! thine ! 



LINES 

On the Death of Mr. P-r—v-l. 

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard, 

Unemoitter'd and free did the tear-drop descend ; 

We forgot in that hour how the statesman had err'd, 

And wept for the husband, the father, and friend. 

Oh * proud was the meed his integrity won, 

And generous indeed were the tears that we shed, 

When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done, 
And, though wrong'd by him living, bewail' d him 
when dead. 

Even now, if one harsher emotion intrude, 

'T is to wish he had chosen some lowlier state — 

Had known what he was, and, content to be good, 
Had ne'er, for our ruin, aspired to be great. 

So, left through their own little orbit to move, 
His years might have roll'd inoffensive away; 



His children might still have been bless'd with h» 
love, 
And England would ne'er have been cursed wit a 
his sway 



LINES 
On the Death of Sh-r-d-n. 

Piincipibus placuisse viris. — Hor. 

Yes, grief will have way— but the fast-falling tear 
Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those 

Who could bask in that spirit's meridian career, 
And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close :- 

Whose vanity flew round him only while fed 
By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave ; 

Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, 
Like the ghole of the East, comes to feed at his 
grave ! 

Oh ! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow 
And spirits so mean in the great and high-born ; 

To think what a long line of titles may follow 
The relics of him who died — friendless and lorn ! 

How proud they can press to the funeral array 
Of one whom they shunn'd in his sickness and 
sorrow : 

How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day, 
Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow! 

And thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream, 
Incoherent and gross, even grosser had pass'd, 

Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam 
Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness 
cast : 

No, not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee 
With millions to heap upon foppery's shrine ; — 

No, not for the riches of all who despise thee, 

Though this would make Europe's whole opulence 
mine ; — 

Would I suffer what — even in the heart that thou 
hast — 
All mean as it is — must have consciously burn'd 
When the pittance, which shame had wrung from 
thee at last, 
And which found all his wants at an end, was re- 
turn'd! 1 

" Was this, then, the fate" — future ages will say, 
When some names shall live but in history's curse; 

When Truth will be heard, and these lords of a day 
Be forgotten as fools, or remember'd as worse — 

"Was this, then, the fate of that high-gifted man, 
The pride of the palace, the bovver, and the hall, 

The orator — dramatist — minstrel, — who ran 

Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of 
all! 



1 The sum was two hundred pounds — offered when 
Sh-r-d-n could no longer take any sustenance, and declined 



for him, by his friends. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



383 



**Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art 
From the finest and best of all other men's powers — 

Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart, 
And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its 
showers ! 

'' Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light, 
Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd — 

Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright, 
Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade ;— 

u Whose eloquence — bright'ning whatever it tried, 
Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave — 

Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide 
As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave !" 

Yes — such was the man, and so wretched his fate ; — 
And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve, 

Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the 
Great, 
And expect 't will return to refresh them at eve ! 

In the woods of the North there are insects that prey 
On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh ; J 

Oh, Genius ! thy patrons, more cruel than they, 
First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die ! 



LINES • 

WRITTEN ON HEARING THAT THE AUSTRIANS HAD 
ENTERED NAPLES. 

Carbone Notati ! 

Ay — down to the dust with them, slaves as they are — 
From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly 
veins, 

That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, 
Be suck'd out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains ! 

On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, 
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er — 

Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails 

From each slave-mart of Europe, and poison their 
shore ! 

Let their fate be a mock-word — let men of all lands 
Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, 

When each sword that the cowards let fall from their 
hands 
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls ! 

And deep and more deep as the iron is driven, 
Base slaves ! may the whet of their agony be, 

To think — as the damn'd haply think of that heaven 
They had once in their reach — that they might 
have been free ! 

Shame, shame, when there was not a bosom, whose 
hoat 

Ever rose o'er the zero of 's heart, 

That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat, 

And send all its prayers with your liberty's start — 



1- Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecans an elk, 
there were found in its bead some large flies, with its brain 
almost eaten away by them. — History of Poland. 



When the world stood in hope — when a spirit, that 
breathed 

The fresh air of the olden time, whisper' d about, 
And the swords of all Italy half-way unsheathed, 

But waited one conquering cry to flash out ! 

When around you, the shades of your mighty in fam<* 
Filicajas and Petrarchs, seem'd bursting to view, 

And their words and their warnings — like tongues ot 
bright flame 
Over Freedom's apostles — fell kindling on you ! 

Good God ! that in such a proud moment of life, 
Worth the history of ages — when, had you bu 
hurl'd 
One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife 
Between freemen and tyrants had spread through 
the world — 

That then — oh disgrace upon manhood ! even then. 
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful 
breath, 
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stooa 
men, 
And prefer the slave's life of damnation to death 

It is strange — it is dreadful; — shout, tyranny, shout. 
Through vour dungeons and palaces, " Freedom 19 
o'er !"— 

If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out, 
And return to your empire of darkness once moie 

For, if such are the braggarts that claim to be free, 
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss — 

Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee, 
Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this ! 
Paris, 1821. 



THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS. 

A DREAM. 

" It would be impossible for His Royal Highness to i'i*pn 
gage his person from the accumulating pile of papers that 
encompassed it." — Lord Castlereagu's Speech upon 
CoIojicI M'Mahon's J3pp ointment. 

Last night I toss'd and tum'd in bed, 
But could not sleep — at length I said, 
"I '11 think of Viscount C-stl-r — gh, 
And of his speeches — that's the way." 
And so it was, for instantly 
I slept as sound as sound could be ; 
And then I dream' d — oh, frightful dream ! 
Fuseli has no such theme ; 

never wrote or borrow'd 

Any horror half so horrid ! 

Methought the P e, in whisker'd state, 

Before me at his breakfast sat:^ : 
On one side lay unread petitions, 
On't other, hints from five physicians— 
Here tradesmen's bills, official papers. 
INotes from my Lady, drams for vapours— 
Tliere plans of saddles, tea and tons:, 
Death-warrants and the Morning Post 



3S4 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



When lo ! the Papers, one and all, 

As if at some magician's call, 

Began to flutter of themselves 

From desk and table, floor and shelves, 

And, cutting each some different capers, 

Advanced — oh Jacobinic papers ! — 

As though they said, " Our sole design is 

To suffocate his Royal Highness !" 

The leader of this vile sedition 

Was a huge Catholic Petition : 

With grievances so full, and heavy, 

It threaten'd worst of all the bevy. 

Then Common-Hall Addresses came 

In swaggering sheets, and took their aim 

Right at the R-g-nt's well-dress'd head, 

Af if determined to be read ! 

Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly — 

And tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high ; 

Nay, even Death-warrants thought they'd best 

Be lively too and join the rest. 

But oh ! — the basest of defections ! 
His letter about " predilections"— 
His own dear letter, void of grace, 
Now flew up in its parent's face ! 
Shock'd with this breach of filial duty, 
He just could murmur, " Et tu Brule /'* 
Then sunk, subdued, upon the floor, 
At Fox's bust, to rise no more ! 

I waked — and pray'd, with lifted hand, 
" Oh ! never may this dream prove true ; 

Though paper overwhelms the land, 
Let it not crush the Sovereign too !" 



PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER. 

At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is nigh, 
When, with P-rc-v-l's leave, I may throw my chains 

by; 

And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do 
Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you. 



I meant before now to have sent you this letter, 
But Y-km — TH and I thought perhaps 't would be 

bettfei 
To wait till the Irish affairs were decided — 
That is, till both houses had prosed and divided, 
With all due appearance of thought and digestion — 
For though H-rtf-rd House had long settled the 

question, 
1 thought it but decent, between me and you, 
That the two other houses should settle it too. 

I need not remind you how cursedly bad 

Our affiirs were all looking when Father went mad; 

A stniit-waistcoat on him, and restrictions on me, — 

A more limited monarchy could not well be. 

I was call'd upon then, in that moment of puzzle, 

To chuse my own minister — just as they muzzle 



A playful young bear, and then mock his disastet 
By bidding him chuse out his own dancing-master. 

I thought the best way, as a dutiful son, 
Was to do as old Royalty's self would have done. 
So I sent word to say I would keep the whole batch in 
The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patch' 

ing— 
For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce, 1 
Would lose all their beauty if purified once ; 
And think — only think — if our Father should find, 
Upon graciously coming again to his mind, 
That improvement had spoil'd any favourite adviser — 
That R-se was grown honest, or W-stm-rel,-njd 

wiser — 
That R-d-r was, even by one twinkle, the brighter— 
Or L-v-R-P — l's speeches but half a pound lighter — 
What a shock to his old royal heart it would be ! 
No ! — far were such dreams of improvement from me; 
And it pleased me to find at the house where, you 

know, 
There's such good mutton-cutlets and strong curacoa, 2 
That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy, 
And my Y-rjvi-th's red whiskers grew redder for joy ! 

You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I would, 
By the law of last Sessions, I might have done good. 
I might have withheld these political noodles 
From knocking their heads against hot Yankee 

Doodles ; 
I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot, 
Might have soothed her with hope — but you know I 

did not. 
And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows 
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous, 
But find that, while he has been laid on the shelf, 
We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself. 
You smile at my hopes, but the doctors and I 
Are the last that can think the K-ng ever will die ! 

A new era 's arrived — though you'd hardly believe it — 

And all things, of course, must be new to receive it. 

New villas, new fetes (which even Waithman at- 
tends) — 

New saddles, new helmets, and — why not new 
friends ? 



I repeat it " new friends" — for I cannot describe 

The delight I am in with this P-rov-l tribe. 

Such capering — such vapouring ! — such rigour— such 

vigour ! 
North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a 

figure, 
That soon they will bring the whole world round our 

ears, 
And leave us no friends — but Old Nick and Algiers. 
When I think of the glory they've beam'd on my 

chains, 
'T is enough quite to turn my illustrious brains ; 
It 's true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches, 
But think how we furnish our Allies with breeches ! 



1 The antique shield of Martinus Scnblprus, which, upon 
scouring, turn'd out to be only an old sconce. 

2 The letter-writer's favourite luncheon 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



385 



We ve lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 't is granted, 
But then we've got Java, an island much wanted, 
To put the last lingering few who remain 
Of the Walcheren warriors out of their pain. 
Then, how Wellington fights! and how squabbles 

his brother ! 
For papists the one, and with papists the other ; 
One crushing Napoleon by taking a city, 
While t' other lays waste a whole Catholic Commit- 
tee ! 
Oh, deeds of renown ! shall I baggie or flinch, 
With such prospects before me? — by Jove not an 

inch. 
No — let England's affairs go to rack if they will, 
We'll look after the affairs of the Continent still, 
And, with nothing at home but starvation and riot, 
Find Lisbon in bread, and keep Sicily quiet. 
I am proud to declare I have no predilections, — 
My heart is a sieve, where some scatter'd affections 
Are just danced about for a moment or two, 
And the finer they are, the more sure to run through: 
Neither have I resentments, nor wish there should 

come ill 
To mortal — except (now I think on Y; Beau Br-mm-l, 
Who threatened, last year, in a superfine passion, 
To cut me, and bring the old K-ng into fashion. 
This is all I can lay to my conscience at present. 
When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant, 
So royally free from all troublesome feelings, 
So little ciu'iimber'd by faith in my dealings 
(And, that I'm consistent, the world will allow, — 
What I was at Newmarket, the same I am now) — 
When such are my merits (you know I hate crack- 
ing,) 
I hope, like the vender of best Patent Blacking, 
" To meet with the generous and kind approbation 
Of a candid, enlighten'd and liberal nation." 

By the by, ere I close this magnificent letter 

rNo man except Pole could have writ you a better,) 

'T would please me if those, whom I've humbugg'd 

so long 
With the notion (good men !) that I knew right from 

wrong, 
Would a few of them join me — mind, only a few — 
To let too much light in on me never would do ; 
But even Grey's brightness shan't make me afraid, 
While I've C-md-n and Eld-n to fly to for shade ; 
Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm, 
While there 's W-stm-rel-nd near him to weaken 

the charm. 
As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it, 
Sure joining with H-RTF-RDand Y-rm — Tiiwill doit! 
Between K-d-r and Wh-rt-n let Sheridan sit, 
And their fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's 

wit ; 
And against all the pure public feeling that glows 
Even in Wiiitbread himself we've ahost inG — rge 

R-se ! 
So, in short, if they wish to have places, they may, 
And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey, 
Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to 

lose) 
By the two-penny post, to tell Grenville the news ; 
And now, dearest Fred (though I've no predilection,) 
Believe me yours always with truest affection. 
3 C 



F. S. — A copy of this is to P-rc-v-l going — 
Good Lord ! how St. Stephen's will ring with his 
crowing ! 



ANACREONTIC. 

TO A PLUMASSIER. 

Fine and feathery artisan ! 
Best of Plumists, if you can 
With your art so far presume, 

Make for me a P e's plume — 

Feathers soft and feathers rare, 
Such as suits a P e to wear .' 

First, thou downiest of men ! 
Seek me out a fine pea-hen ; 
Such a hen, so tall and grand, 
As by Juno's side might stand, 
If there were no cocks at hand ! 
Seek her feathers, soft as down, 

Fit to shine on P e's crown ; 

If thou canst not find them, stupid! 
Ask the way of Prior's Cupid. 

Ranging these in order due, 
Pluck me next an old cuckoo ; 
Emblem of the happy fates 
Of easy, kind, cornuted mates ! 
Pluck him well — be sure you do — 
Who would n't be an old cuckoo, 
Thus to have his plumage bless'd. 
Beaming on a r-y-1 crest ? 

Bravo, Plumist ! — now what bird 
Shall we find for plume the third ? 
You must get a learned owl, 
Blackest of black-letter fowl — 
Bigot bird that hates the light, 
Foe to all that 's fair and bright ! 
Seize his quills (so foi m'd to pen 
Books that shun the search of men,— 
Books that far from every eye, 
In " swclter'd venom sleeping" lie !) 
Stick them in, between the two, 
Proud pea-hen and old cuckoo ! 

Now you have the triple feather, 
Bind the kindred stems together 
With a silken tie whose hue 
Once was brilliant buif and blue ; 
Sullied now — alas ! how much !— 
Only fit for Y-rm — th's touch. 
There — enough — thy task is done ; 

Present worthy G ge's son ! 

Now, beneath, in letters neat, 

Write " I serve," and all 's complete 



EXTRACTS 

FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN. 

Wednesday 
Through M-nch-st-r Square took a canter just 

now — 
Met the old yellow chariot, and made a low bow. 
This I did, of course, thinking 't was loyal and civil, 
But got such a look— oh, 't was black as the devil ? 



'636 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



How unlucky ! — incog, he was travelling about, 
And I, like a noodle, must go find him out ! 

Mem. — When next by the old yellow chariot I ride, 
To remember there is nothing princely inside. 

Thursday. 
At Levee to-day made another sad blunder — 
What can be come over me lately, I wonder ? 

The P E was as cheerful as if, all his life 

He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife — 
"Fine weather," says he — to which I, who must prate, 
Answer'd, "Yes, Sir, but clmngeable rather, of late." 
He took it, I fear, for he look'd rather gruff, 
And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough, 
That before all the courtiers I fear'd they'd come off, 
And then, Lord ! how Geramb would triumphantly 
scoff! 

Mem. To buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion 
To nourish his whiskers — sure road to promotion! 1 

Saturday. 
Last night a concert — vastly gay — 
Given by Lady C-stl-r — gh. 
My Lord loves music, and, we know, 
Has two strings always to his bow. 
In chusing songs, the R-g-nt named 
"Had la heart for falsehood framed." 
While gentle H-rtf-rd begg'd and pray'd 
For " Young I am, and sore afraid." 



KING CRACK 2 AND HIS IDOLS. 

Written after the late Negotiation for a new 
M-n-stry. 

King Crack was the best of all possible kings 
(At least so his courtiers would swear to you 
gladly,) 

But Crack now and then would do het'rodox things, 
And, at last, took to worshipping Images sadly. 

Some broken-down Idols, that long had been placed 

In his Father's old Cabinet, pleased him so much 
That he knelt down and worshipp'd, though— such 
was his taste ! 
They were monstrous to look at and rotten to 
touch ! 

And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack! — 

Till his people, disdaining to worship such things, 

Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your Godships 

must pack — 

You will not do for us, though you may do for 

Kings." 



1 England is not the only country where merit of this kind 
is noticed and rewarded. " I remember," says Tavernier, 
" to have seen one of the King of Persia's porters, whose 
mustachios were so long that he could tie them behind his 
neck, for which reason he had a double pension." 

2 One of those antediluvian princes with whom Manetho 
ar.d Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If we had 
the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manetho compiled his 
history, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a 
Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as 
Wbiston says) was the last king of the antediluvian dy- 
nasty 



Then trampling the gross Idols under their feet, 
They sent Crack a petition, beginning, "Great 
Caesar ! 
We are willing to worship, but only entreat 
That you '11 find us some decenter Godhead than 
these are." 

"I'll try," says King Crack— then they furnish'd 

him models 

Of better shaped Gods, but he sent them all back ; 

Some were chisell'd too fine, some had heads 'stead 

of noddles, 

In short, the} were all much too godlike for Crack! 

So he took to his darling old Idols again, 
And, just mending their legs and new bronzing 
their faces, 
In open defiance of gods and of men, 

Set the monsters up grinning once more in theij 
places ! 



WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS. 

AN ANACREONTIC. 

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers ! 
Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers 
Or (if sweeter that abode,) 
From the King's well-odour'd Road, 
Where each little nursery bud 
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud ! 
Hither come, and gaily twine 
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine 
Into wreaths for those who rule us — 
Those who rule and (some say) fool us 
Flora, sure, will love to please 
England's Household Deities !' 

First you must then, willy-nilly, 
Fetch me many an orange lily — 
Orange of the darkest dye 
L'ish G-ff-rd can supply ! 
Choose me out the longest sprig, 
And stick it in old Eld-n's wig ! 

Find me next a poppy-posy, 
Type of his harangues so dozy, 
Garland gaudy, dull and cool, 
For the head of L-v-rp — l ! — 
'T will console his brilliant brows 
For that loss of laurel boughs 
Which they suffer'd (what a pity !) 
On the road to Paris City. 

Next, our C-stl-r — gh to crown, 
Bring me, from the County Down, 
Wither'd shamrocks, which have beea 
Gilded o'er to hide the Green — 
(Such as H — df — T brought away 
From Pail-Mall last Patrick's Day. 2 ) 



1 The ancients, in like manner, crowned their lares, or 
household gods. — See Juvenal, sat. 9. v. 138. Plutarch too 
tells us that household gods were then, as they are now, 
"much given to war and penal statutes." tptvvvuiSsif xmi 
srojviy.ouj Sxiy-ovxg. 

2 Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock, which are 

distributed by the servants of C n House every Patrick'* 

day. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



387 



Stitch the garland through and through 

With shabby threads of every hue — 

And as, Goddess ! — entre nous — 

His Lordship loves (though best of men) 

A little torture now and then, 

Crimp the leaves, thou first of syrens ! 

Crimp them with thy curling-irons. 

That 's enough — away, away — 
Had I leisure, I could say 
How the oldest rose that grows 
Must be pluck'd to deck Old R-se, — 
How the Doctor's brow should smile 
Crown'd with wreaths of camomile ! 
But time presses. — To thy taste 
I leave the rest ; so, prithee, haste ! 



THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS. 

Nova monstra creavit.— Ovid. Met. lib. i. ver 437. 

Having sent off the troops of brave Major Camac, 
With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back, 
And such nelmets — God bless us ! — as never deck'd 

any 
Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni — 
" Let 's see," said the R-g-nt (like Titus, perplex'd 
With the duties of empire,) "whom shall I dress 

next?" 
He looks in the glass — but perfection is there, 
Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts, all right to a hair; 1 
Not a single ex-curl on his forehead he traces — 
For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is, 
The falser they are, the more firm in their places. 

His coat he next views — but the coat who could 

doubt ? 

For his Y-rm — th's own Frenchified hand cut it out ; 
Every pucker and seam were made matters of state 
And a grand Household Council was held on each 

plait ! 

Then whom shall he dress ? Shall he new rig his 

brother, 
Great C-mr-rl-nd's Duke, with some kickshaw or 

othsr? 
And kindly invent him more Christian-like shapes 
For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes ? 
Ah ! no — here his ardour would meet with delays, 
For the Duke had been lately pack'd up in new Stays, 
So complete for the winter, he saw very plain 
'T would be devilish hard work to wnpack him again ! 

So what 's to be done?— there's the Ministers, 

bless 'em ! — 
As he made the puppets, why should n't he dress 'em? 



" An excellent thought ! — call the tailors — be nimble — 
Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and H-rtf-rd her thim- 
ble; 
While Y-rm-th shall give us, in spite of all quizzers, 
The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors." 

So saying, he calls C-stl-r-gh, and the rest 
Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be dress'd. 
While Y-r-m — Til, with snip-like and brisk expedi- 
tion, 
Cuts up, all at once, a large Catholic Petition 

In long tailors' measures (the P e crying, " Well 

done !") 
And first puts in hand my Lord Chancellor Eld-n. 



1 That model of princes, the Emperor Commodus, was 
particularly luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of 
his hair. His conscience, however, would not suffer him to 
trust himself with a barber, and he used, accordinely, to 
burn off his beard. "Timore tonsoris," says Lampridius. — 
'Hist. August. Scriptor.) The dissolute ^Elius Verus, too, 
was equally attentive to the decoration of his wig. — (See 
lul. Capitulin.) Indeed, this was not the only princely 
.rait in the character of Verus, as he had likewise a most 
hearty ard dignified contempt for his wife. — See his insult- 
ing answer to her in Spartianus. 



OCCASIONAL ADDRESS, 

For the Opening of the New Theatre of St. St-ph-^i, 
intended to have been spoken by the Proprietor, in. 
full Costume, on the 24th of November. 

This day a New House, for your edification, 
We open, most thinking and right-headed nation ! 
Excuse the materials — though rotten and bad, 
They 're the best that for money just now could be 

had ; 
And, if echo the charm of such houses should be 
You will find it shall echo my speech to a T 

As for actors, we 've got the old company yet, 
The same motley, odd, tragi-comical set : 
And, considering they all were but clerks t' other day 
It is truly surprising how well they can play. 
Our manager (he who in Ulster was nursed, 
And sung Erin go Bragh for the galleries first, 
But, on finding Pift-interest a much better thing, 
Changed his note, of a sudden, to " God save the 

King!" 
Still wise as he 's blooming, and fat as he 's clever, 
Himself and his speeches as length]/ as ever, 
Here offers you still the full use of his breath, 
Your devoted and long-winded proser till death ! 

You remember, last season, when things went pen 

verse on, 
We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on) 
One Mr. V-ns-tt-rt, a good sort of person, 
Who 's also employ' d for this season to play 
In "Raising the Wind," and "the Devil to Pay." 
We expect too — at least we've been plotting and 

planning — 
To get that great actor from Liverpool, C-nn-ng ; 
And, as at the circus there 's nothing attracts 
Like a good single combat brought in 'twixt the acts. 
If the Manager should, with the help of Sir P-ph-m, 
Get up new diversions, and C-nn-ng should stop 'em, 
Who knows but we '11 have to announce in the pa- 
pers, 
"Grand fight — second time — with additional capers.*' 
Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad, 
There is plenty of each in this house to be had ; 
Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be. 
For a dead hand at tragedy always was he ; 
And there never was dealer in dagger and cup, 
Who so smilingly got all his tragedies up. 



His powers poor Ireland will never forget, 

And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet. 

So much for the actors. — For secret machinery, 
Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery, 
Y-rm — th and Cum are the best we can find 
To transact all that trickery business behind. 
The former 's employ'd too to teach us French jigs, 
Keep the whiskers in curl, and look after the wigs. 

In taking my leave, now I 've only to say 

A few Seats in the House, not as yet sold away, 

May be had of the Manager, Pat C-stl-r — gh. 



THE SALE OF THE TOOLS. 
Instrumenta regni. — Tacitus. 

Here's a choice set of tools for you, Gemmen and 

Ladies, 
They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is — 
(Except it be Cabinet-making- — I doubt 
In that delicate service they are rather worn out; 
Though their owner — bright youth! — if he'd had his 

own will, 
Would have bungled away with them joyously still.) 
You can see they've been pretty well hacWd — and, 

alack ! 
What tool is there job after job will not hack 1 
Their edge is but dullish, it must be confess'd, 
And their temper, like Ell-nb'r— gh's, none of the 

best ; 
But you'll find them good hard-working Tools, upon 

trying— 
Were it but for the brass, they arc well worth the 

buying; 
They are famous for making blinds, sliders, and 

screens, 
And they're, some of them, excellent turning ma- 
chines! 

The first Tool I'll put up (they call it a Chancellor) 
Heavy concern to both purchaser and seller, — 
Though made of pig-iron, yet (worthy of note 't is) 
'T is ready to melt at a half-minute's notice. 
Who bids'? Gentle buyer! 't will turn as thou 

shapest — 
*T will make a good thum-screw to torture a Papist; 
Or else a cramp-iron, to stick in the wall 
Of some church that old women are fearful will fall; 
Or better, perhaps (for I 'm guessing at random,) 
A neavy drag chain for some Lawyer's old Tandem ! 
Will nobody bid ? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir — 
Once, twice — going, going — thrice — gone ! — It is 

yours, Sir. 
To pay ready money you sha'n't be distress'd, 
As a bill at long date suits the Chancellor best. 

Come, where 's the next Tool ? — Oh ! 't is here in a 

trice — 
This implement, Gemmen ! at first was a Fi'ce-— 
(A tenacious and close sort of Tool, that will let 
Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get) — 
But it since has received a new coating of Tin, 
Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in ! 



Come, what shall we say for it ? — briskly ! bid on, 
We '11 the sooner get rid of it — going — quite gone ! 
God be with it ! Such Tools, if not quickly knock'c 

down, 
Might at last cost their owner — how much ? why, a 

Crown ! 

The next Tool I '11 set up has hardly had handsel or 
Trial as yet, and is also a Chancellor — 
Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross 
Yet, dull as it is, 't will be found to shave close, 
And, like other close shavers, some courage to gather 
This blade first began by a flourish on leather! 
You shall have it for nothing — then, marvel with me 
At the terrible tinkering work there must be, 
Where a Tool, such as this is (I '11 leave you to judge it) 
Is placed by ill luck at the top of the Budget ! 



LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL. 
A Ballad to the Tune of " There was a. little Man, and 
he wooed a little Maid^ dedicated to the Right Hon, 
Ch-rl-s Abb-t. 

Arcades ambo 
Et cant-axe pares. 

1813. 

There was a little Man, and he had a little Soul, 
And he said, " Little Soul, let us try, try, try, 

Whether it 's within our reach 

To make up a little speech, 

Just between little you and little I, I, I, 

Just between little you and little I!" 

Then said his little Soul, 
Peeping from her little hole, 
" I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stOHt, 
But, if 't is not uncivil, 
Pray tell me, what the devil 
Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout, 
Must our little, little speech be about 

The little Man look'd big, 
With the assistance of his wig, 
And he call'd his little Soul to order, order, order, 
Till she fear'd he 'd make her jog in 
To jail, like Thomas Croggan, 
(As she was n't duke or earl) to reward her, ward her. 
ward her, 
As she was n't duke or earl, to reward her 

The little Man then spoke, 
" Little Soul, it is no joke, 
For, as sure as J-cky F-ll-r loves a sup, sup, sup 
I will tell the Prince and People 
What I think of Church and Steeple, 
And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up, 
And my little patent plan to prop them up." 

Away then, cheek by jowl, 
Little Man and Little Soul 
Went, and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, 
tittle, 
And the world all declare 
That this priggish little pair 
Never yet in all their lives look'd so little, little, little 
Never yet in all their lives look'd so little 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



38<J 



REINFORCEMEMTS FOR LORD WEL- 
LINGTON. 



suosque tibi commendat Troja penates, 

i cape fatorum comites. — Virgil. 



Hi 



1813. 

As recruits in these times are not easily got, 

And the Marshal must have them — pray, why should 

we not, 
As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to 

him, 
Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him ? 
There 's not in all England, I 'd venture to swear, 
Any men we could half so conveniently spare ; 
And, though they 've been helping the French for 

years past, 
We may thus make them useful to England at last. 
C-stjl-r — gh in our sieges might save some disgraces, 
Being used to the taking and keeping of places ; 
And Volunteer C-nn-NG, still ready for joining, 
Might show off his talent for sly undermining. 
Could the Household bat spare us its glory and pride, 
Old H — df — T at horji-works again might be tried, 
And the Ch — f J-st-ce make a bold charge at his 

side ! 
While V-ns-tt-rt could victual the troops upon tick, 
And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick. 

Nay, I do not see why the great R-g-nt himself 
Should, in times such as these, stay at home on the 

shelf:— 
Though through narrow defiles he 's not fitted to pass, 
Yet who could resist if he bore down en masse ? 
And, though oft, of an evening, perhaps he might prove, 
Like our brave Spanish Allies, "unable to move ;' M 
Yet there 's one thing in war, of advantage unbounded, 
Which is, that he could not with ease be surrounded! 

In my next, I shall sing of their arms and equipment. 
At present no more but — good luck to the shipment ! 



LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS. 

1813. 
So, gentl3>- in peace Alcibiades smiled, 

While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand, 
That the emblem they graved on his seal was a child, 

With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand. 

Oh, Wellington ! long as such Ministers wield 
Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do ; 

For, while they 're in the Council and you in the Field, 
We 've the babies in them, and the thunder in you! 



To the Editor of the Morning Chronicle. 

Sir, — In order to explain the following fragment, 
it is necessary to refer your readers to a late florid 
description of the Pavilion at Brighton, in the apart- 



1 The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John 
Miurav's memorable despatch 



ments of which, we are told, " Fum, The Chinese 
Bird of Royalty " is a principal ornament 

I am, Sir, yours, etc. 

Mum 



FUM AND PIUM, 

The two Birds of Royalty. 

One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, Fum, 
Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, Hum, 
In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton — which is it?) 
Where Fum had just come to pay Hum a short visit. — 
Near akin are these Birds, though they differ in nation ; 
(The breed of the Hums is as old as creation,) 
Both full-craw'd Legitimates — both birds of prey, 
Both cackling and ravenous creatures, half way 
'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord C-s- 

tl-r — gh ; 
While Fum deals in' Mandarins, Bonzes, Bohea — 
Peers, Bishops, and Punch, Hum, are sacred to thee! 
So congenial their tastes, that, when Fum first did 

light on 
The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton, 
The lanterns, and dragons, and things round the dome 
Were so like what he left, " Gad," says Fum, "I 'm 

at home." — 
And when, turning, he saw Bishop L ge, 

"Zooks, it is," 
Quoth the Bird, " yes — I know him — a Bonze, by his 

phiz — 
And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low 
Can be none but our round-about godhead, fat Fo !" 
It chanced, at this moment, the Episcopal Prig 
Was imploring the P E to dispense with his 

wig, 1 
Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head, 
And some ToBiT-like marks of his patronage shed, 
Which so dimm'd the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye, 
That while Fum cried " Oh Fo !" all the Court cried 

" Oh fie !" 

But, a truce to digression. — These Birds of a feather 
Thus talk'd, t' other night, on State matters together — 

(The P E just in bed, or about to depart for 't, 

His legs full of gout, and his arms full of ;) 

"I say, Hum," s?ys Fum — Fum, of course, spoke 

Chinese, 
But, bless you, that 's nothing — at Brighton one sees 
Foreign lingoes and Bishops translated with ease — 
"I say, Hum, how fares it with Royalty now? 
Is it up ? is it prime ? is it spooney — or how ?" 
(The Bird had just taken a Fiashman's degree 
Under B E, Y th, and young Mas- 



ter L- 



As for us in Pekin"- 



here a devil of a di 



From the bed-chamber came, where that long Man- 
darin, 

C-stl-r — gh (whom Fum calls the Confucius of 
prose,) 

Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose 

To the deep, double-bass of the fat idol's nose ! 



1 In consequence of an old promise that he should he 
allowed to wear his own hair, whenever he might be v\p> 
vated to a bishoprick by his E, 1 H ss. 



390 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



(Nota Bene. — His Lordship and L-v-rp — L come, 
In collateral lines, from the old Mother Hum, — 
C-stl-r — gii a HuM-bug — L-v-rp — l a HuM-drum.) 
The speech being finish'd, out rush'd C-stl-r — gh, 
Saddled Hum in a hurry, and whip, spur, away ! 
Through the regions of air. like a Snip on his hobby, 
Ne'er paused till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby. 



EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN. 

Concerning some foul play in a late Transaction. 1 

" Ahi, mio Ben!" — Metastasio. 2 

What ! Ben, my old hero, is this your renown ? 
Is this the new go ? — kick a man when he 's down ! 
When the foe has knock'd under, to tread on him 

then — 
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, Ben ! 
" Foul ! foul !" all the lads of the fancy exclaim — 
Charley Shock is electrified — Belcher spits 

flame — 
And Molyneux — ay, even Blacky, cries " Shame I" 
Time was, when John Bull little difference spied 
'Twixt the foe at his feet and the friend at his side ; 
When he found (such his humour in fighting and 

eating,) 
His foe, like his beef-steak, the sweeter for beating — 
But this comes, Master Ben, of your cursed foreign 

notions, 
Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace, and lo- 
tions ; 
Your noyaus, curacoas, and the devil knows what — 
(One swig of Blue Ruin 3 is worth the whole lot !) — 
Your great and small crosses — (my eyes, what a 

brood ! 
A cross-buttock from me would do some of them 

good!) 
Which have spoil'd you, till hardly a drop, my old 

porpoise, 
Of pure English claret is left in your corpus; 
And (as Jim says) the only one trick, good or bad, 
Of the fancy you 're up to, is Jibbing, my lad ! 
Hence it comes, — Box i ana, disgrace to thy page ! — 
Having floor'd, by "-ood luck, the first swell of the age, 
Having conquer'd the prime one, that milVd us all 

round, 
You kick'd him, old Ben, as he gasp'd on the ground ! 
Ay — -just at the time to show spunk, if you 'd got any — 
Kick'd him, and jaw'd him, and lagg'd* him to 

Botany ! 
Oh, shade of the Cheesemonger ! B you who, alas ! 
Doubled up, by the dozen, those Mounseers in brass, 
On that great day of milling, when blood lay in lakes, 
When Kings held the bottle and Europe the stakes, 



1 Written soon after B — n-p-rto's transportation to St. 
Helena. 

2 Tom, I suppose, was "assisted"' to this motto by Mr. 
Jackson, who, it is welV known, keeps the most learned 
company going. 

3 Gin. 4 Transported. 

5 A Life-Guardsman, one of the Fancy, who distin- 
guished himself, and v/as 'killed in the memorable set-to at 
Waterloo • 



Look down upon Ben — see him dunghill all o'er, 
Insult the fallen foe that can harm him no more. 
Out, cowardly spooney! — again and again, 
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, Ben. 
To show the white feather is many men's doom, 
But, what of one feather ? — Ben shows a whole Plume 



TO LADY HOLLAND, 

On Napoleon's Legacy of a Snuff-box, 
Gift of the Hero, on his dying day, 

To her, whose pity watch d, for ever nigh; 
Oh ! could he see the proud, the happy ray, 

This relic -lights up on her generous eye, 
Sighing, he'd feel how easy 't is to pay 

A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy 



CORRESPONDENCE. 

Between a Lady and a Gentleman, upon the Advan 
tage of (what is called) " having Law on one'* 
Side." 



" Legge aurea, 
S' eipiace, ei lice." 

THE GENTLEMAN'S PROPOSAL. 

Come, fly to these arms, nor let beauties so bloomy 

To one frigid owner be tied ; 
Your prudes may revile, and your old ones look 
gloomy, 

But, dearest ! we've Law on our side. 

Oh ! think the delight of two lovers congenial, 

Whom no dull decorums divide ; 
Their error how sweet, and their raptures how venial, 

When once they've got Law on their side ! 

'T is a thing that in every King's reign has been done, 
too : 

Then why should it now be decried ? 
If the Father has done it, why shouldn't the Son too ? 

For so argues Law on our Ifde ! 

And, even should our sweet violation of duty 

By cold-blooded jurors be tried, 
They can but bring it in " a misfortune," my beauty ! 

As long as we've Law on our side. 

THE LADY'S ANSWER. 

Hold, hold, my good Sir ! go a little more slowly ; 

For, grant me so faithless a bride, 
Such sinners as we are a little too lowly, 

To hope to have Law on our side. 

Had you been a great Prince, to whose stai shining 
o'er 'em 
The People should look for their guide, 
Then your Highness (and welcome !) might kick 
down decorum — 
You'd always have Law on your side. 

Were you even an old Marquis, in mischief grown 
hoary, 
Whose heart, though it long ago died 



To tne pleasures of vice, is alive to its glory — 
You still would have Law on your side ! 

But for you, Sir, orim. con. is a path full of troubles; 

By my advice therefore abide, 
And leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles 

Who have such a Law on their side ! 



HORACE, ODE XL LIB. H. 
Freely Translated by G. R. x 

'Come, Y-rm — th, my boy, never trouble your brains 

About what your old croney, 

The Emperor Boxey, 
le doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains : 
s Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries ; — 

Should there come famine, 

Still plenty to cram in 
You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stana- 

ries ! 
Brisk let us revel, while revel we may ; 
4 For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away, 

And then people get fat, 

And infirm, and — all that, 

6 And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits, 

That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits. 

e Thy whiskers, too, Y-rm — th ! — alas, even they, 

Though so rosy they burn, 

Too quickly must turn 
(What a heart-breaking chance for thy whiskers !) to 
Grey. 

7 Then why, my Lord Warden ! oh ! why should you 

fidget 
Your mind about matters you don't understand ? 
Or why shorn*, 'ou write yourself down for an idiot, 
Because " you, forsooth, " have the pen in your 
hand .'" 
Think, think how much better 
Than scribbling a letter 
(Which both you and I 
Should avoid, by the by) — 

8 How much pleasanter 't is to sit under the bust 

Of old Charly, my friend here, and drink like a 
new one ; 



1 This and the following are extracted from a work 
(whirli may some time or other meet ihe eye of the public) 
entitled, " Odes of Horace, done into English by several per- 
sons of fashion." 

2 Quid bellicosus Cantaber et Scytha, 
Hiipine Quincii, cogitet, Adria 
Divisus objecto, remittas 

Quaerere 

3 Nee trepides in usum 
Poscentis a?vi pauca. 

4 Fugit retro 

Levis juventas et decor. 

5 Pellente lascivos amores 
Canitie. 

6 Neque uno Luna rubeiis nitet 

Vultu. 

7 Quid reterrus mi-nortm 

Consiliis animum fatigas 1 

8 Cur non sub alta vel platano, vel hac 
Pinu jacentes sic temere 



While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just 
As the ghost in the pantomime frowns at Don 
Juan ! 

1 To crown us, Lord Warden ! 

In C-mb-rl-nd's garden 
Grows plenty of monk' 's-hoods in venomous sprigs ; 

While Otto of Roses, 

Refreshing all noses, 
Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs. 
2 What youth of the Household will cool our noyau 

In that streamlet delicious, 

That, down 'midst the dishes, 

All full of good fishes 

Romantic doth flow ? — 

3 Or who will repair 

Unto M Sq e, 

And see if the gentle Marchesa be there ? 
Go — bid her haste hither, 

4 And let her bring with her 

The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going — 
5 Oh ! let her come with her dark tresses flowing, 
All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay, 
In the manner of Ackermann's Dresses for May' 



HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I. 

Freely translated by Lord Eld — n. 

e The man who keeps a conscience pure 
(If not his own, at least his Prince's,) 

Through toil and danger walks secure, 
Looks big, and black, and never winces ! 

T No want has he of sword or dagger, 
Cock'd hat or ringlets of Geramb ; 

Though Peers may laugh, and Papists swagger, 
He does not care one single d-mn ! 

8 Whether 'midst Irish chairmen going, 
Or, through St. Giles's alleys dim, 



Canos odorati capillos 

Dum licet, Assyriaque nardo 
Potamus uncti. 

2 Q.Liis puer ocyua 

liestinguet ardentis Falerni 
Pocula pnctcrcuntc lijmpha ? 

3 Q.uis eliciet domo 

Lvden 1 



Maturet. 



Eburna die age cum lyra (qu. liar-a) 



5 Tncomtum Lacssnce 

More comam religata nodum. 

6 Integer vita? scelerisque purus. 

7 Non eget Mauri jaculis neqne arsu 
Nee venenatis gravida sagiltis 

Fusee, pliaretra. 

8 Sive per Syrteis iter cestuosas, 
Sive facturus per inhospiialem 
Caucasum, vel qu;e loca fabuloslis 

Lambit Hydaspes. 

The noble translator had at first, laid the scene of trie<*8 
imngined dangers of bis man of conscience among the pa- 
pists of Spain, and had translated the words "qua? loca 
fabvlosus lambit Hydaspes" thus — " The fabling Spaniard 
licks the French ;" but, recollecting that it is our interest 
just now lo he respectful o Spanish catholics (though there 

certainly no earthly reason for our being even commonly 
civil to Irish ones,) he altered the passage as it stands 8* 
present. . 



3*J2 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



'Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing, 
No matter — 't is all one to him. 

1 For instance, I, one evening late, 

Upon a gay vacation sally, 
Singing the praise of Church and State, 

Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne- Alley 

When lo ! an Irish Papist darted 

Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big — 

1 did but frown, and off he started, 

Scared at me without my wig ! 

2 Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog 

Goes not to mass in Dublin City, 
Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog, 
Nor spouts in Catholic Committee ! 

3 Oh ! place me 'midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles, 

The ragged royal blood of Tara ; 
Or place me where Dick M-rt-n rules, 
The houseless wilds of Connkmara ; — ■ 

4 Of Chu.ch and State I'll warble still, 

Though even Dick M-rt-n's self should grumble; 
Sweet Church and state, like Jack and Jill, 
6 So lovingly upon a hill — 

Ah ! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble ! 



HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III. 

A fragment. 

Odi profanum vulgus et arceo. 
Favete linguis: carmina non prius 
Audita, Musarum sacerdos, 
Virginibus, puerisque canto. 
Regum tremendorum in proprios greges, 
Reges in ipsos imperium est Jo vis. 

1813. 

1 hate thee, oh Mob ! as my lady hates delf ; 
To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses, 



1 Namoue me sylva lupus in Sabina, 
Dum meam canto Lalagen, et ultra 
Terminum curis vagor expeditus, 

Fugit inermem. 
I cannot help calling the reader's attention to the peculiar 
ingenuity with which these lines are paraphrased. Not to 
mention the happy conversion of the wolf into a papist 
(seeing that Romulus was suckled by a wolf, that Rome was 
founded by Romulus, and that the Pope has always reigned 
at Rome.) there is something particularly neat insupposing 
" ultra /,erwiinum" to mean vacation-time; and then the 
modest consciousness with which the noble and learned 
translator has avoided touching upon the words "curis ex- 
peditus" (or, as it has been otherwise read, causis expedi- 
tus") and the felicitous idea of his being " inermis" when 
"without his wig," are altogether the most delectable spe- 
cimens of paraphrase in our language. 

2 Quale portentum neque militaris 
Daunia in latis alit esculetis", 
Ntc .Tuba; tellus generat, leonum 

Arida nutrix. 

3 Pone me p'gris ubi nulla campis . 
Arbor cestiva recreatur aura: 

Quod latus mundi, nebula, malusque 
Jupiter urget. 
I must, here remark, that the said Dick M-rt-n being a 
very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a " maius 
Jupiter" of him. 

4 Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo, 

Dulce loquenfem. 
5 There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of 



Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself, 
And, like G-dw-n, write books for young masters 
and misses, 
Oh ! it is not high rank that can make the heart 
merry, 
Even monarchs themselves are not free from mis 
hap; 
Though the Lords of Westphalia must quake before 
Jerry, 
Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap. 



HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Translated by a Treasury Clerk, while waiting Din- 
ner for the Right Hon. G — rge R — se. 

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus: 
Displicent nexre philyra coronoe. 
Mitte sectari Rosa quo locorum 
Sera moretur. 

Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nick-nackeries, 
Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries,— 
Six by the Horse-Guards ! — old Georgy is late — 
But come — lay the table-cloth — zounds ! do not wait, 
Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying, 
At which of his places Old R — se is delaying I 1 



TO 



Moria pur quando vuol, non e bisogna mutar ni faccia ni 
voce per esser un Angelo. 2 

Die when you will, you need not wear 
At heaven's court a form more fair 
Than Beauty here on earth has given ; 



the inseparability of Church and State, and their (what ia 
called) "standing and falling together," than this ancient 
pologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents 
the State in this ingenious little allegory, 

Jack fell down, 

And broke his Crown, 

And Jill came tumbling after. 

1 The literal closeness of the version here cannot but be 
admired. The translator has added a long, erudite, and 
flowery note upon Roses, of which I can merely give a spe- 
cimen at present. In the first place, he ransacks the Rosa- 
rium Politicum of the Persian poet Sadi, with the bope of 
finding some Political Roses, to match the gentleman in the 
text — but in vain : he then tells us lhat Cicero accused Ver- 
res of reposing upon a cushion "Melitensi rosa fartum" 
which, from the odd mixture of words, he supposes to be a 
kind of Irish Bed of Roses, like Lord Castlereajih's. The 
learned clerk next favours us with some remarks upon a 
well-known punning epitaph on* fair Rosamond, and ex- 
presses a most loyal hope, that, if" Rosa munda" mean " a 
Rose with clean hands," it may be found applicable to the 
Right Honourable Rose in question. He then dwells at 
some length upon the " Rosa aurea" which though de- 
scriptive, in one sense, of the old Treasury Statesman, yet, 
as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, 
not be brought into the same atmosphere with him. Lastly 
in reference to the words " old Rose," he winds up with 
the pathetic lamentation of the poet, " eon^enuisse Rosas." 
The whole note, indeed, shows a knowledge of Roses thaC 
is quite edifying. 

2 The word- addressed by Lord Herbert of Cherbury, to 
the beautiful nun at Murano. — See his Life 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



393 



Keep but the lovely looks we see — 
The voice we hear — and you will be 
An angel ready-made for heaven ! 



IMPROMPTU. 

Upon being obliged to leave a pleasant party, from the 
want of a pair Breeches to dress for Dinner in. 

1810. 
Between Adam and me the great difference is, 

Though a paradise each has been forced to resign, 
That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his, 
While, for want of my breeches, I'mbanish'dfrom 



WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LffiE ? 
Quest. — Why is a Pump like Viscount C-stl-r — gh ? 

Answ. — Because it is a slender thing of wood, 
That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, 
And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away, 

In one weak, washy, everlasting flood ! 



EPIGRAM.' 

"What news to-day ?" — " Oh ! worse and worse — 

M — c is the Pr e's Privy Purse !" 

The Pr e's Purse ! no, no, you fool, 

You mean the Pr e's Ridicule ! 



EPIGRAM. 

Dialogue between a Catholic Delegate and his R-y-l 

H-ghn-ss the D-ke of C — b-rl-nd. 
Said his Highness to Ned, with that grim face of his, 
"Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?" — 
** Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz, 
" You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, al- 
ready !" 



EPIGRAM. 

Dialogue between a Dowager and her Maid on the 
Night of Lord Y-rm—th's Fete. 

*I want the Court-Guide," said my Lady, "to look 

If the house, Seymour Place, be at 30 or 20." — 
We 've lost the Court-Guide, Ma'am, but here 's the 

Red Book, 
Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour Places in 

plenty !" 



EPIGRAM. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

"I never give a kiss," says Prue, 
" To naughty man, for I abhor it." 

She will not give a kiss 't is true — 

She '11 take one, though, and thank you for it. 



1 This is a bort-mot, attributed, I know not how truly, to 
the Pr-nc ss of W-l-s. I have merely versified it. 
3 D 



ON A SQUINTING POETESS. 

To no one Muse does she her glance confine, 
But has an eye, at once, to all the nine.' 



THE TORCH OF LIBERTY. 

I saw 7 it all in Fancy's glass — 
Herself the fair, the wild magician, 

That bid this splendid day-dream pass, 
And named each gliding apparition. 

! T was like a torch race — such as they 
Of Greece perform'd, in ages gone, 

When the fleet youths in long array, 
Pass'd the bright torch triumphant on 

I saw the expectant nations stand 
To catch the coming flame in turn — 

I saw, from ready hand to hand, 
The clear but struggling glory burn. 

And, oh ! their joy, as it came near, 

'T was in itself a joy to see — 
While Fancy whisper'd in my ear 

"That torch they pass is Liberty !" 

And each, as she received the flame, 

Lighted her altar with its ray, 
Then, smiling to the next who came, 
\ Speeded it on its sparkling way. 

From Albion first, whose arcient shrine 
Was furnish' d with the fire already, 

Columbia caught the spark divine, 
And lit aflame like Albion's — steady 

The splendid gift then Gallia took, 
And, like a wild Bacchante, raising 

The brand aloft, its sparkles shook, 
As she would set the world a-blazing. 

And, when she fired her altar, nigh 
It flash'd into the redd'ning air 

So fierce, that Albion, who stood high, 
Shrunk, almost blinded by the glare ! 

Next, Spain — so new was light to her — 
Leap'd at the torch ; but, ere the spark 

She flung upon her shrine could stir, 
'T was Quench'd and all again was dark 

Yet no — not quench'd — a treasure worth 
So much to mortals rarely dies. — 

Again her living light look'd forth, 
And shone, a beacon, in all eyes. 

Who next received the flame ? — Alas ! 

Unwortuy Naples — shame of shames 
That ever through such hands should pass 

That brightest of all earthly flames 1 

Scarce had her fingers touch'd the torch, 
When, frighted by the sparks it shed, 

Nor waiting e'en to feel the scorch, 
She dropp'd it to the earth — and fled 

And fallen it might have long remain'd, 
But Greece, who saw her moment now, 



394 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stain'd, 
And waved it round her beauteous brow. 

And Fancy bid me mark where, o'er 

Her altar as its flame ascended, 
Fair laurell'd spirits seem'd to soar, 

Who thus in song their voices blended : — 

M Shine, shine for ever, glorious flame, 

Divinest gift of God to men ! 
From Greece thy earliest splendour came, 

To Greece thy ray returns again i 

*' Take, Freedom ! take thy radiant round — 
When dimm'd, revive — when lost, return ; 

Till not a shrine through earth be found, 
On which thy glories shall not burn ! 



EPILOGUE. 

Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, 
Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and — all that, 
And wondering much what little knavish sprite 
Had put it first in women's heads to write : — 
Sudden I saw — as in some witching dream — 
A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam, 
From whose quick-opening folds of azure light, 
Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright 
As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head, 
Some sunny morning, from a violet bed. 
" Bless me !" I starting cried, " what imp are you ?" — 
"A small he-devil, Ma'am — my name Bas Bleu — 
A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading: 
"T is I who teach your spinsters of good breeding 
The reigning taste in chemistry and caps, 
The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps, 
And, when the waltz has twirl' d her giddy brain, 
With metaphysics twirl it back again ! 

I view'd him, as he spoke — his hose were blue, 

His wings — the covers of the last Review — 

Cerulean, border'd with a jaundice hue, 

And tinsell'd gaily o'er, for evening wear, 

Till the next quarter brings a new-fledged pair. 

"Inspired by me — (pursued this waggish Fairy)— 

That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary, 

Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse, 

Makes „;er own splay-foot epigrams and shoes. 

For me the eyes of young Camilla shine, 

And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine; 

For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking, 

Looks wise — the pretty soul ! — and thinks she 's 

thinking. 
By my advice Miss Indigo attends 
Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends, 
'Pon honour ! — [inimicks) — nothing can surpass the 

plan 
Of that professor — [trying to recollect) — psha! that 

memory-man- — 
Th.it— what 's his name? — him I attended lately — 
'Pea honour, he improved my memory greatly.' " 

Here, curtseying low, I ask'd the blue-legg'd sprite, 

What share he had in this our play to-night. 

•* IN ay, there — (he cried) — there I am guiltless quite — 



What ! choose a he oine from that Gothic time, 
When no one waitz'd, and none but monks could 

rhyme ; 
When lovely woman, all unschool'd and wild, 
Blush'd without art, and without culture smiled — 
Simple as flowers, while yet unclass'd they shone, 
Ere Science call'd their brilliant world her own, 
Ranged the wild rosy things in learned orders, 
And fill'd with Greek the garden's blushing hol- 
ders ?— 
No, no — your gentle Inas will not do — 
To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue, 
I '11 come — (pointing downwards) — you understand 
till then adieu !" 

And has the sprite been here ? No— jests apart- 
Howe'er man rules in science and in art, 
The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. 
And, if our Muse have sketch'd with pencil true 
The wife — the mother — firm, yet gentle too — 
Whose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun ; ■ 
Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one ; 
Who loves — yet dares even Love himself disown, 
When honour's broken shaft supports his throne 
If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils, 
Dire as they are, of Critics and — Blue Devils. 



TO THE MEMORY OF 

JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. OF DUBLIN 

If ever life was prosperously cast, 

If ever life was like the lengthen'd flow 

Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, 
'T was his who, mourn' d by many, sleeps below 

The sunny temper, bright were all its strife, 
The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles, 

Light wit, that plays along the calm of life, 
And stirs its languid surface into smiles ; 

Pure charity, that comes not in a shower, 
Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, 

But, like the dew, with gradual silent power, 
Felt in the bloom it leaves among the meads ; 

The happy grateful spirit, that improves 
And brightens every gift by fortune given, 

That, wander where it will with those it loves, 
Makes every place a home, and home a heaven : 

All these were his. — Oh ! thou who read'st this stone 
When for thyself, thy children, to the sky 

Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, 
That ye like him may live, like him may die ! 



EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET 

Beneath these poppies buried deep, 
The bones of Bob the Bard lie hid ; 

Peace to his manes ; and may he sleep 
As soundly as his readers did ! 

Through every sort of verse meandering, 
Bob went without a hitch or fall, 

Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine, 
To verse that was no verse at all ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



aas 



Till fiction having done enough, 
To make a bard at least absurd, 

And give his readers quantum suff. 

He took to praising George the Third : 

And now, in virtue of his crown, 

Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter; 
Like Donellan of bad renown, 

Poisoning us all with laurel-water. 

And yet at times some awkward qualms he 
Felt about leaving honour's track ; 

And though he 's got a butt of Malmsey, 
It may not save him from a sack. 

Death, weary of so dull a writer, 

Put to his works a finis thus. 
Oh ! may the earth on him lie lighter 

Than did his quartos upon us ! 



THE SYLPH'S BALL. 

A Sylph, as gay as ever sported 
Her figure through the fields of air, 

By an old swarthy Gnome was courted, 
And, strange to say, he won the fair. 

The annals of the oldest witch 
A pair so sorted could not show — 

But how refuse ? — the Gnome was rich, 
The Rothschild of the world below ; 

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures, 
Learn from their mammas to consider 

Love as an auctioneer of features, 

Who knocks them down to the best bidder. 

Home she was taken to his mine — 
A palace, paved with diamonds all— 

And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine, 
Sent out her tickets for a ball. ^ 

The lower world, of course, was there, 
And all the best ; but of the upper 

The sprinkling was but shy and rare — 
A few old Sylphids who loved supper. 

As none yet knew the wondrous lamp 
Of Davy, that renown'd Aladdin, 

And the Gnome's halls exhaled a damp, 
Which accidents from fire were bad in ; 

The chambers were supplied with light 
By many strange, but safe devices : — 

Large fire-flies, such as shine at night 
Among the Orient's flowers and spices : 

Musical flint-mills — swiftly play'd 
By elfin hands— that, flashing round, 

Like some bright glancing minstrel maid, 
Gave out, at once, both light and sound ; 

Bologna-stones, that drink the sun 
And water from that Indian sea, 

Whose waves at night like wild-lire run, 
CorkM up in crystal carefully ; 

Glow-worms, that round the tiny dishes, 
Like httle light-houses, were set up; 



And pretty phosphorescent fishes, 
That by their own gay light were eat up. 

'Mong the few guests from Ether, came 
That wicked Sylph, whom Love we call— 

My Lady knew him but by name, 
My Lord, her husband, not at all. 

Some prudent Gnomes, 't is said apprized 
That he was coming, and, no doubt 

Alarm'd about his torch, advised 
He should, by all means, be kept out. 

But others disapproved this plan, 

And, by his flame though somewhat frighted, 
Thought Love too much a gentleman, 

In such a dangerous place to light it. 

However, there he was — and dancing 
With the fair Sylph, light as a feather: 

They look'd like two young sunbeams, glancing 
At daybreak, down to earth together. 

And all had gone off safe and well, 
But for that plaguy torch — whose light; 

Though not yet kindled, who could tell 
How soon, how devilishly it might ? 

And so it chanced — which in those dar 
And fireless halls, was quite amazing 

Did we not know how small a spark 
Can set the torch of Love a-blazing. 

Whether it came, when close entangled 
In the gay waltz, from her bright eyes, 

Or from the lucciole, that spangled 
Her locks of jet — is all surmise. 

Certain it is, the ethereal girl 

Did drop a spark, at some odd turning, 
Which, by the waltz's windy whirl, 

Was fann'd up into actual burning. 

Oh for that lamp's metallic gauze — 
That curtain of protecting wire — 

Which Davy delicately draws 
Around illicit, dangerous fire ! — 

The wall he sets 'twixt flame and air 

(Like that which barr'd young Thisbe's bliss,) 

Through whose small holes this dangerous pair 
May see each other but not kiss. 1 

At first the torch look'd rather bluely — 
A sign, they say, that no good boded — 

Then quick the gas became unruly, 

And, craek ! the ball-room all exploded. 

Sylphs, Gnomes, and fiddlers, mix'd together, 
With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces, 

Like butterflies, in stormy weather, 
Were blown — legs, wings, and tails — to pieces 

While, 'mid these victims of the torch, 
The Sylph, alas ! too, bore he 1- part — 

Found lying, with a livid scorch, 
As if from lightning, o'er tier heart ! 



Partique dcdere 



Oscula quisque suae, non pervenientia contra. — Ovid. 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



"Well done!" a laughing goblin said, 
Escaping from this gaseous strife ; 

** 'T is not the Jirst time Love has made 
A blow-up in connubial life." 



REMONSTRANCE. 

After a conversation with L — d J R , 

which he Jiad intimated some idea of giving up all 
political pursuits. 
What ! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy 
name — 
Thou, born of a Russel — whose instinct to run 
The accustom'd career of thy sires, is the same 
As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun ! 

Whose nobility comes to thee, stamp'd with a seal, 
Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set ; 

With the blood of thy race offer'd up for the weal 
Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet ! 

Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife, 
From the mighty arena where all that is grand, 

And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life, 

Is for high-thoughted spirits, like thine, to com- 
mand? 

Oh no, never dream it — while good men despair 
Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, 

Never think, for an instant, thy country can spare 
Such a light from her dark'ning horizon as thou ! 

With a spirit as meek as the gentlest of those 
Who in life's sunny valley lie shelter'd and warm; 

Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose 
To the top cliffs of Fortune, and breasted her 
storm ; 

With an ardour for liberty, fresh as in youth, 
It first kindles the bard, and gives life to his lyre ; 

Yet mellow'd, even now, by that mildness of truth 
Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot fire ; 

With an eloquence — not like those rills from a height, 
Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er ; 

But a current that works out its way into light 

Through the filt'ring recesses of thought and of lore. 

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade ; 

If the stirrings of genius, the music of fame, 
And the charms of thy cause have not power to per- 
suade, 
Yet think how to freedom thou 'rt pledged by thy 
name. 

Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree, 
Set apart for the fane and its service divine, 

AH the branches that spring from the old Russel tree, 
Are by liberty claimed for the use of her shrine. 



EPITAPH ON A LAWYER. 

Here lies a lawyer — one whose mind 
(Like that of all the lawyer kind) 
Resembled, though so grave and stately, 
The pupil of a cat's eye greatly ; 



Which for the mousing deeds, transacted 

In holes and corners, is well fitted, 
But which, in sunshine, grows contracted, 

As if 't would — rather not admit it ; 
As if, in short, a man would quite 

Throw time^away who tried to let in a 
Decent portion of God's light 

On lawyers' mind or pussy's retina. 

Hence when he took to politics, 

As a refreshing change of evil, 
Unfit with grand affairs to mix 
His little Nisi-Prius tricks, 

Like imps at bo-peep, play'd the devil ; 
And proved that when a small law wit 

Of statesmanship attempts the trial, 
'Tis like a player on the kit 

Put all at once to a bass viol. 

Nay, even when honest (which he could 
Be, now and then,) still quibbling daily, 

He serv'd his country as he would 
A client thief at the Old Bailey. 

But — do him justice — short and rare 

His wish through honest paths to roam ; 
Born with a taste for the unfair, 
Where falsehood call'd, he still was there, 

And when least honest, most at home. 
Thus, shuffling, bullying, lying, creeping, 

He work'd his way up near the throne, 
And, long before he took the keeping 

Of the kirig's conscience, lost his own. 



MY BIRTH-DAY. 

"My birth-day !" — What a different sound 
That word had in my youthful ears ! 

And how, each time the day comes round, 
Less and less white its mark appears ! 

When first our scanty years are told, 
It seems like pastime to grow old ; 
And, as youth counts the shining links 

That time around him binds so fast, 
Pleased with the task, he little thinks 

How hard that chain will press at last 

Vain was the man, and false as vain, - 

Who said, 1 "were he ordain'd to run 
His long career of life again, 

He would do all that he had done."— 
Ah ! 't is not thus the voice that dwells 

In sober birth-days speaks to me ; 
Far otherwise — of time it tells 

Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly — 
Of counsel mock'd — of talents, made 

Haply for high and pure designs, 
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid 

Upon unholy, earthly shrines — 
Of nursing many a wrong desire — 

Of wandering after Love too far, 
And taking every meteor fire 

That cross'd my pathway for his star ! 



1 Fovtenelle. — " Si je recommencais ma carnere, je fe- 
rais tout ce que j'ai fait." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



397 



All this it tells, and, could I trace 

The imperfect picture o'er again, 
With power to add, retouch, efface 

The lights and shades, the joy and pain, 
How little of the past would stay ! 
How quickly all should melt away — 
All — but that freedom of the mind 

Which hath been more than wealth to me ; 
Those friendships in my boyhood twined, 

And kept till now unchangingly ; 
And that dear home, that saving ark, 

Where Love's true light at last I 've found, 
Cheering within, when all grows dark, 

And comfortless, and stormy round ! 



FANCY. 

The more I 've view'd this world, the more I 've found 

That, fill'd as 't is with scenes and creatures rare, 
Fancy commands, within her own bright round, 

A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. 
Nor is it that her power can call up there 

A single charm that 's not from Nature won, 
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear 

A single tint unborrow'd from the sun — 
But 't is the mental medium it shines through, 
That lends to beauty all its charm and hue ; 
As the same light, that o'er the level lake 

One dull monotony of lustre flings, 
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make 

Colours as gay as those on angels' wings ! 



LOVE AND HYMEN. 

Love had a fever — ne'er could close 
His little eyes till day was breaking ; 

And whimsical enough, Heaven knows, 
The things he raved about while waking. 

To let him pine so were a sin — 

One to whom all the world 's a debtor— 

So Doctor Hymen was call'd in, 
And Love that night slept rather better. 

Next day the case gave further hope yet, 
Though still some ugly fever latent ; — 

"Dose, as before" — a gentle opiate, 
For which old Hymen has a patent. 

After a month of daily call, 

So fast the dose went on restoring, 

That Love, who first ne'er slept at all, 
Now took, the rogue ! to downright snoring. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

Sweet Sirmio ! thou, the very eye 

Of all peninsulas and isles 
That in our lakes of silver lie, 

Or sleep, enwreathed by Neptune's smiles, 

How gladly back to thee I fly ! 

Still doubting, asking can it be 
That I have left Bithynia's sky, 

And gaze in safety upon thee ? 



Oh ! what is happier than to find 
Our hearts at ease, our perils past ; 

Wliert, anxious long, the lighten'd mind 
Lays down its load of care at last ?— 

When, tired with toil on land and deep, 
Again we tread the welcome floor 

Of our own home, and sink to sleep 
On the long-wish'd-for bed once more T 

This, this it is that pays alone 
The ills of all life's former track — 

Shine out, my beautiful, my own 
Sweet Sirmio — greet thy master back. 

And thou, fair lake, whose water quaffs 
The light of heaven, like Lydia's sea, 

Rejoice, rejoice — let all that laughs 
Abroad, at home, laugh out for me ! 



TO MY MOTHER. 

Written in a Pocket-Book, 1822. 

They tell us of an Indian tree 

Which, howsoeer the sun and sky 
May tempt its boughs to wander free, 

And shoot and blossom, wide and high, 
Far better loves to bend its arms 

Downward again to that dear earth 
From which the life, that fills and warms 

Its grateful being, first had birth. 

'T is thus, though woo'd by flattering friends, 
And fed with fame (if fame it be,) 

This heart, my own dear mother, bends, 
With love's true instinct, back to thee ! 



ILLUSTRATION OF A BORE. 

If ever you 've seen a gay party, 

Relieved from the pressure of Ned-«. 
How instantly joyous and hearty 

They 've grown when the damper was fled— «■ 
You may guess what a gay piece of work, 

What delight to champagne it must be, 
To get rid of its bore of a cork, 

And come sparkling to you, love, and me ! 



A SPECULATION. 

Of all speculations the market holds forth, 
The best that I know for a lover of pelf 

Is, to buy ****** up, at the price he is worth. 
And then sell him at that which he sets on himself 



SCEPTICISM 

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed 

Immortal life into her soul, 
Some evil spirit pour'd, 'tis said, 

One drop of doubt into the bowl— 

Which, mingling darkly with the stream, 
To Psyche's lips — she knew not why — 



MOORE'S WORKS 



Made even that blessed nectar seem 
As though its sweetness soon would die. 

Oft, in the very arms of Love, 
A chill came o'er her heart — a fear 

That death would, even yet, remove 
Her spirit from that happy sphere. 

"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaim'd, 
Twining them round her snowy fingers — 

" That forehead, where a light, unnamed, 
Unknown on earth, for ever lingers — 

" Those lips, through which I feel the breath 
Of heaven itself, whene'er they sever — 

Oh ! are they mine beyond all death — 
Mine own, hereafter and for ever ? 

" Smile not — I know that starry brow, 
Those ringlets and bright lips of thine, 

Will always shine as they do now — 
But shall / live to see them shine ?" 

In vain did Love say, " Turn thine eyes 
On all that sparkles round thee here — 

Thou 'rt now in heaven, where nothing dies, 
And in these arms — what canst thou fear ?" 

In vain — the fatal drop that stole 
Into that cup's immortal treasure, 

Had lodged its bitter near her soul, 
And gave a tinge to every pleasure. 

And, though there ne'er was rapture given 
Like Psyche's with that radiant boy, 

Hers is the only face in heaven 
That wears a cloud amid its joy. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 
Of all the men one meets about. 

There 's none like Jack — he '& every where i 
At church — park — auction — dinner — rout — 

Go when and where you will, he 's there. 
Try the West End, he 's at your back — 

Meets you, like Eurus, in the East — 
You 're call'd upon for " How do, Jack Y* 

One hundred times a-day, at least. 
A friend of his one evening said, 

As home he took his pensive way, 
" Upon my soul, I fear Jack 's dead — 

I 've seen him but three times to-day !" 



/ 

ROMANCE. 

have a story of two lovers, fill'd 
With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness 
And the sad doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd 
Two young and longing hearts in that sweet mad- 
ness; 
But where to choose the locale of my vision 
In th»s wide vulgar world — what real spot 
Can be found out, sufficiently elysian 
For two such perfect lovers, I know not. 



Oh, for some fair Formosa, such as he, 

The young Jew, 1 fabled of, in the Indian Sea, 

By nothing but its name of Beauty known, 

And which Queen Fancy might make all her own, 

Her fairy kingdom — take its people, lands, 

And tenements into her own bright hands. 

And make, at least, one earthly corner fit 

For Love to five in — pure and exquisite ! 



A JOKE VERSIFIED. 
"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of 
life, 
There 's no longer excuse for thus playing the 
rake — 
It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife." — 
" Why, so it is, father, — whose wife shall I take ?" 



ON 



Like a snuffers, this loving old dame, 

By a destiny grievous enough, 
Though co oft she has snapp'd at the flame, 

Hath never caught more than the snuff. 



FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER. 

Here lies Factotum Ned at last : 
Long as he breathed the vital air, 

Nothing throughout, all Europe pass'd 
In which he had n't some small share. 

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out — 
Whatever statesmen did or said — 

If not exactly brought about, 
Was all, at least, contrived by Ned. 

With Nap if Russia went to war, 
'T was owing, under Providence, 

To certain hints Ned gave the Czar — 
(Vide his pamphlet — price six pence.) 

If France was beat at Waterloo — 

As all, but Frenchmen, think she was— 

To Ned, as Wellington well knew, 
Was owing half that day's applause. 

Then for his news — no envoy's bag 

E'er pass'd so many secrets through it— 

Scarcely a telegraph could wag 
Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it. 

Such tales he had of foreign plots, 

With foreign names one's ear to buzz in- 

From Russia chefs and ofs in lots, 
From Poland owslds by the dozen. 

When George, alarm'd for England's creed, 
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry, 

And men ask'd — who advised the deed ? 
Ned modestly|3onfess'd 't was he. 

For though, by some unlucky miss, 
He had not downright seen the King, 



1 Psalmanazar. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



299 



He sent such hints through Viscount This, 
To Marquis That, as clench'd the tiling. 

The same it was in science, arts, 

The drama, books, MS. and printed — 

Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, 
And Scott's last work by him was hinted. 

Childe Harold in the proofs he read, 

And, here and there, infused some soul in 't- 

Nay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned, 
Had — odd enough — a dangerous hole in 't. 

'T was thus, all doing and all knowing, 
Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer, 

Whatever was the best pie going, 
In that Ned — trust him — had his finger. 



COUNTRY-DANCE AND QUADRILLE. 

One night, the nymph call'd Country-Dance— 
Whom folks, of late, have used so ill, — 

Preferring a coquette from France, 
A mincing thing, Mamselle Quadrille — 

Having been chased from London down 
To that last, humblest haunt of all 

She used to grace — a country-town — 
Went smiling to the new year's ball. 

"Here, here, at least," she cried, "though driven 
From London's gay and shining tracks — 

Though, like a Peri cast from heaven, 
I 've lost, for ever lost Almack's— 

" Though not a London Miss alive 
Would now for her acquaintance own me ; 

And spinsters, even of forty-five, 

Upon their honours ne'er have known me : 

" Here, here, at least, I triumph still, 
And— spite of some few dandy lancers, 

Who vainly try to preach quadrille — 
See nought but true-blue country-dancers. 

" Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms, 
My throne, like Magna Charta, raise, 

'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms, 
That scorn the threaten'd chaine Anglaise." 

'T was thus she said, as, 'mid the din 
Of footmen, and the town sedan, 

She lighted at the King's-Head Inn, 
And up the stairs triumphant ran. 

The squires and the squiresses all, 
With young squirinas, just come out, 

And my lord's daughters from the Hall 
(Quadvillers, in their hearts, no doubt,) 

Already, as she tripp'd up stairs, 

She in the cloak-room saw assembling— 

When, hark ! some new outlandish airs, 
From the first fiddle, set her trembling. 

She stops — she listens — can it be ? 

Alas ! in vain her ears would 'scape it — 
It is " Di tanti palpiti," 

As plain as English bow can scrape it. 



" Courage !" however in she goes, 
With her best sweeping country grace ; 

When, ah ! too true, her worst of foes, 
Quadrille, there meets her, face to face. 

Oh for the lyre, or violin, 

Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore, 
To sing the rage these nymphs were in, 

Their looks and language, airs and trickery. 

There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face 
(The beau ideal of French beauty,) 

A band-box thing, all art and lace, 
Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie. 

Her flounces, fresh from Victorine — 
From Hippolyte her rouge and hair — 

Her poetry, from Lamartine — 
Her morals from — the Lord knows where. 

And, when she danced — so slidingly, 
So near the ground she plied her art, 

You 'd swear her mother-earth and she 
Had made a compact ne'er to part. 

Her face the while, demure, sedate, 
No signs of life or motion showing, 

Like a bright penduWs dial-plate — 

So still, you 'd hardly think 't was going. 

Full fronting her stood Country-Dance — 
A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know 

For English, at a single glance — 
English all o'er, from top to toe. 

A little gauche, 't is fair to own, 
And rather given to skips and bounces ; 

Endangering thereby many a gown, 
And playing oft the devil with flounces. 

Unlike Mamselle — who would prefer 

(As morally a lesser ill) 
A thousand flaws in character, 

To one vile rumple of a frill. 

No rouge did she of Albion wear ; 

Let her but run that two-heat race 
She calls a Set — not Dian e'er 

Came rosier from the woodland chase. 

And such the nymph, whose soul had in't 
Such anger now — whose eyes of blue 

(Eyes of that bright victorious tint 
Which English maids call " Waterloo") 

Like summer lightnings, in the dusk 
Of a warm evening, flashing broke, 

While — to the tune of "Money Musk," 1 
Which struck up now — she proudly spoke 

"Heard you that strain — that joyous strain? 

'T was such as England loved to hear, 
Ere thou, and all thy frippery train, 

Corrupted both her foot and ear — 

" Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands, 
Presumed, in sight of all beholders, 



1 An old English country-dance. 



VVSfc 



400 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



To lay his rude licentious hands 
On virtuous English backs and shoulders — 

" Ere times and morals both grew bad, 
And, yet unfTeeced by funding blockheads, 

Happy John Bull not only had, 
But danced to 'Money in both pockets.' 1 



" Alas, the change ! — oh, ! 

Where is the land could 'scape disasters, 
With such a Foreign Secretary, 

Aided by foreign dancing-masters ? 

" Woe to ye, men of ships and shops, 
Rulers of day-books and of waves ! 

Quadrill'd, on one side, into fops, 
And drill'd, on t' other, into slaves ! 

" Ye, too, ye lovely victims ! seen, 
Like pigeons truss'd for exhibition, 

With elbows a la crapaudine, 
And feet in — God knows what position. 

" Hemm'd in by watchful chaperons, 
Inspectors of your airs and graces, 

Who intercept all signal tones, 
And read all telegraphic faces. 

u Unable with the youth adored, 
In that grim cordon of mammas, 

To interchange one loving word, 

Though whisper'd but in queue-de-chats. 

u Ah, did you know how bless'd we ranged, 
Ere vile Quadrille usurp'd the fiddle— 

What looks in setting were exchanged, 
What tender words in down the middle ! 

'* How many a couple, like the wind, 
Which nothing in its course controls, 

Left time and chaperons far behind, 
And gave a loose to legs and souls ! 

"How matrimony throve — ere stopp'd 
By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting — 

How charmingly one's partner popp'd 
The important question in poussette-ing ! 

"While now, alas, no sly advances — 
No marriage hints — all goes on badly : 

'Twixt Parson Malthus and French dances, 
We girls are at a discount sadly. 

"* Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell) 
Declares not half so much is made 

By licences — and he must know well — 
Since vile Quadrilling spoil'd the trade." 

She ceased — tears fell from every Miss — 
She now had touch'd the true pathetic : — 

One such authentic fact as this, 
Is worth whole volumes theoretic. 

Instant the cry was " Country-Dance !'* 
And the maid saw, with brightening face, 

1 Another old English country-dance. 



The steward of the night advance, 
And lead her to her birth-right place. 

The fiddles, which awhile had ceased, 
Now tuned again their summons sweet. 

And, for one happy nignt, at least, 
Old England's triumph was complete. 



SONG. 

FOR THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY 

To those we love we 've drank to-night ; 

But now attend, and stare not, 
While I the ampler list recite 

Of those for whom — we care not. 

For royal men, howe'er they frown, 
If on their fronts they bear not 

That noblest gem that decks a crown— 
The People's Love — we care not. 

For slavish men who bend beneath 

A despot yoke, and dare not 
Pronounce the will, whose very breath 

Would rend its links — we care not. 

For priestly men who covet sway 

And wealth, though they declare not • 

Who point, like finger-posts, the way 
They never go — we care not. 

For martial men who on their sword, 
Howe'er it conquers, wear not 

The Pledges of a soldier's word, 
Redeem'd and pure — we care not. 

For legal men who plead for wrong, 
And, though to lies they sweat* not, 

Are not more honest than the throng 
Of those who do — we care not. 

For courtly men who feed upon 
The land like grubs, and spare not 

The smallest leaf where they can sun 
Their reptile limbs — we care not. 

For wealthy men who keep their mines 
In darkness hid, and share not 

The paltry ore with him who pines 
In honest want — we care not. 

For prudent men who keep the power 

Of Love aloof, and bare not 
Their hearts in any guardless hour 

To Beauty's shafts — we care not. 

For secret men who, round the bowl 

In friendship's circle, tear no* 
The cloudy curtain from their soul, 

But draw it close — we care not. 

For all, in short, on land and sea, 
In court and camp, who are not, 

Who never were, nor e'er will be 
Good men and true — we care not. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



40i 



GENIUS AND CRITICISM. 



Scripsit quidcm fata, scd sequitur. — Seneca. 

Of old, the Sultan Genius reign'd — 
As Nature meant — supreme, alone ; 

With mind uncheck'd, and hands unchain d, 
His views, his conquests were his own. 

But power like his, that digs its grave 
With its own sceptre, could'not last: 

So Genius' self became the slave 
Of laws that Genius' self had pass'd. 

As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate, 
Was, ever after, doom'd to wear it ; 

His nods, his struggles, all too late — 
" Qui semeljussit, semper paref" 

To check young Genius' proud career, 
The slaves, who now his throne invaded, 

Made Criticism his Prime Vizir, 

And from that hour his glories faded. 

Tied down in Legislation's school, 
Afraid of even his own ambition, 

His very victories were by rule, 
And he was great but by permission. 

His most heroic deeds — the same 

That dazzled, when spontaneous actions— 
Now, done by law, seem'd cold and tame, 

And shorn of all their first attractions. 

If he but stirr'd to take the air, 
Instant the Vizir's Council sat — 

** Good Lord ! your Highness can't go there- 
Bless us ! your Highness can't do that." 

S, loving pomp, he chose to buy 
Rich jewels for his diadem— 
J£ 



" The taste was bad — the price was high— 
A flower were simpler than a gem." 

To please them if he took to flowers — 
" What trifling, what unmeaning things ! 

Fit for a woman's toilet hours, 
But not at all the style for kings." 

If, fond of his domestic sphere, 

He play'd no more the rambling comet— 
"A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear, 

But, as for great or brave — far from it." 

Did he then look o'er distant oceans, 

For realms more worthy to enthrone him? 

" Saint Aristotle, what wild notions ! 
Serve a ' Ne exeat regno' on him." 

At length — their last and worst to do — 

They round him placed a guard of watchmen- 
Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blue 
Turn'd up with yellow — chiefly Scotchmen- 

To dog his foot-steps all about, 

Like those in Longwood's prison-grounds, 
Who at Napoleon's heels rode out 

For fear the Conqueror should break bound* 

Oh, for some champion of his power, 

Some ultra spirit, to set free, 
As erst in Shakspeare's sovereign hour, 

The thunders of his royalty ! — 

To vindicate his ancient line, 

The first, the true, the only one 
Of Right eternal and divine 

That rules beneath the blessed sun !— 

To crush the rebels, that would cloud 
His triumphs with restraint or blame, 

And, honouring even his faults, aloud 
*fc».echo " Vive le. R/>i / enmnd meme — s 



402 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



THE following Fugitive Pieces, which have appeared from time to time in the most popular London journal 
(The Times,) are very generally attributed to Mr. Moore, and, though not acknowledged by that Gentle- 
man, their wit, grace, variety, and spirit, sufficiently attest the truth of the report, and sanction their insertion 
in a complete collection of his Poetical Works. 



AN AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN 
BANK AND GOVERNMENT. 

BANK. 

Is all then forgotten ? — those amorous pranks 
You and I, in our youth, my dear Government, 
play'd — 

When you call'd me the fondest, the truest of Banks, 
And enjoy'd the endearing advances I made. 

When — left to do all, unmolested and free, 

That a dashing, expensive young couple should do, 

A law against paying was laid upon me, 

But none against owing, dear helpmate, on you? 

And is it then vanish d ? — that " hour (as Othello 
So happily calls it) of Love and Direction," 1 

And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow, 
Grow good in our old age, and cut the connection ? 

GOVERNMENT. 

Even so, my heloved Mrs. Bank, it must be, — 
This paying in cash 2 plays the devil with wooing — 

We 've both had our swing, but I plainly foresee 
There must soon be a stop to our bill-ing and 
cooing. 

Propagation in reason — a small child or two — ■ 
Even Reverend Malthus himself is a friend to : 

The issue of some folks is moderate and few — 
But ours, my dear corporate Bank, there 's no end 
to! 

So, — hard as it is on a pair who 've already 

Disposed of so many pounds, shillings, and pence; 

And, in spite of that pink of prosperity, Freddy, 3 
Who d, even in famine, cry "D — n the expense !" 

The day is at hand, my Papyria 4 Venus, 

When, high as we once used to carry our capers, 

Those soft billets-doux we 're now passing between us 
Will serve but to keep Mrs. C— tts in curl-papers; 

And when — if we still must continue our love, 
After all that is past — our amour, it is clear 

(Like that which Miss Danae managed with Jove,) 
Must all be transacted in bullion, my dear ! 



An hour 



Oflove, of worldly matter and direction." 

2 It appears that Ovid, however, was a friend to the re- 
■umution of payment in specie: — 

" finem, specie cceleste resumta, 

Luctibus imposuit, venitque salutifer urbi." 

Met . 1. xv. v. 743. 

3 flon. F. Robinson. 

4 To distinguish her from the " Aurea." 



ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES 

B5f SIR T S L E. 

"Legiferae Cereri Phceboque."— Virgil. 

Dear Goddess of Corn, whom the ancients, we knovi 
(Among other odd whims of those comical bo- 
dies,) 
Adorn'd with somniferous poppies to show 

Thou wert always a true Country-gentlernan's 
Goddess ! 

Behold, in his best shooting-jacket, before thee, 

An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches, 
Great Queen of Mark-lane (if the thing does n't bore 
thee,) 
Thou 'It read o'er the last of his — never-last 
speeches. 

Ah ! Ceres, thou know'st not the slander and scorn 
Now heap'd upon England's 'Squirearchy so boast- 
ed; 

Improving on Hunt's scheme, irfstead of the Corn, 
'T is now the Corn-growers, alas ! that are roasted ! 

In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us — 
Reviewers, economists — fellows, no doubt, 

That you, my dear Ceres, and Venus, and Bacchus, 
And Gods of high fashion, know little about. 

There 's B-nth-m, whose English is all his own 
making, — 
Who thinks just as little of settling a nation 
As he would of smoking his pipe, or of taking 
(What he, himself, calls) his " post-prandial vibra- 
tion." 1 

There are two Mr. M s, too, whom those that like 

reading 
Through all that's unreadable, call very clever ; — 

And, whereas M Senior makes war on good 

breeding, 
M Junior makes war on all breeding whatever! 

In short, my dear Goddess, Old England's divided 
Between ultra blockheads and superfine sages ; — 

With which of these classes we, landlords, have sided, 
Thou'lt find in my Speech, if thou'lt read a few 

pages 

For therein I ve prov'd, to my own satisfaction, 
And that of all 'Squires I've the honour of meeting 

That 't is the most senseless and foul-mouth'd detrao 
tion 
To say that poor people are found of cheap eating 



1 The venerable Jeremy's phrase for his after-dinnei 
walk 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



409 



On the contrary, such the chaste notions of food 
That dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart, 

They won Itl scorn any law, be it over so good, 
That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear 
I ban thou art ! 

And, oh ! for Monopoly what a blest day, 

\\"1hmi the Land and the Silk shall, in fond combi- 
nation, 
(Ijke Sulk;/ and Silky, that pair in the play,) 

Cry out, with one voice, for High Rents and Star- 
vation !' 

Long life to the Minister! — no matter who, 

Oi how dull he may be, if, with dignified spirit, he 

Keeps the ports shut — and the people's mouths, too, — 
We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity. 

As for myself, who've, like Hannibal, sworn 
To hate the whole crew who would take our rents 
from us, 

Had England but One to stand by thee, Dear Corn, 
That last honest Uni-conr would be — SirTh s! 



DIALOGUE BF/TWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND 
A ONE ROUND NOTE. 

" O ego non felix, quam tu fugis, at puvot acres 
Agnu lupus, oaprenqae leones." — llur. 

Said a Sovereign to a Note, 

In the pocket of my coat, 
Where they hum, in a neat purse of leather, 

"How happens it, I prithee, 

That though I'm wedded with thee, 
Fair Round, we can never live together ? 

" Like your sex, fond of change, 

With silver you can range, 
And of lots of young sixpences be mother; 

While with vie — on 117 word, 

Not my Lady and my Lord 
Of W th see so little of each other!" 

The indignant Note replied 

(Lying crumpled by his side,) 
" Shame, shame, it is yourself that roam, Sir — 

One cannot look askance, 

Rut, whip ! you're oil" to Prance, 
Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir. 

"Your scampering began 

From the moment Rarson Van, 
Poor man, made us vne in Love's fetter, 

4 For better or for worse' 

Is the usual marriage curse: 
Rut ours is all 'worse' and no 'better/ 



1 " Road to Ruin." 
Dicta Famea Corerls (quaravis oontrarla temper 
lllius est open) poraglt. — Ovid, 

1 This i* meant nol BO much tor a pun, as in allusion to 

khf natural history of the unicorn, which is supposed to be 
something; between the Bus ami the Aniiius, ami, as Rene's 
OyclopiBdia tells us, has a particular liking fur any thing 
ehusiu. 



" In vain are laws pass'd, 
There 's nothing holds you fast, 
Though you know, sweet Sovereign, 1 adoro you— 

At the smallest hint in life, 
You forsake your lawful wife, 
As other Sovereigns did before you. 

" I flirt with Silver, true — 

Rut what can ladies do, 
When disown'd by their natural protectors ? 

And as to falsehood, stuff! 

I shall soon be false enough, 
When I get among those wicked Rank Directors. 

The Sovereign, smiling on her, 

Now swore, upon his honour, 
To be henceforth domestic and loyal; 

Rut, within an hour or two, 

Why — 1 sold him to a Jew, 
And he 's now at No. 10, Ralais Royal. 



AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING. 

"Quern das finein, Res magne, laborumT' — Virgil. 

How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all 
The Reers of the realm about cheapening their 
corn,' 

When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental, 
'T is hardly worth while being very high born ! 

Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life, 
On a question, my Lord, there 's so much to abhor 
in? 

A question — like asking one, "ITowis your wife?" — 
At once so confounded domestic and foreign. 

As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast, 
Rut Peers, and such animals 1\h\ up for show, 

(Like the woll-physick'd elephant, lately deceased,) 
Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know. 

You might see, my dear Raron, how bored and dis- 
trest 

Were their high noble; hearts by your merciless tale, 
When the force of the agony wrung e'en a jest 

From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord L — d — le ! a 

Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gavo 
A humour, endow'd with effects so provoking, 

That, when the whole House looks unusually grave, 
You may always conclude that Lord L — d — le's 
joking! 

And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth — 
Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms 

Between weavers of Perth and l'eers of high birth, 
'Twixt tho.se who have //n'rdooms, and those 
who've but looms ! 



I See ihe proceedings of the Lords, Wednesday, March 1 
when Lord King was severely reproved by several of the 
noble Peers, tor making so many speeches against the Corn 

Laws. 

'2 'Plus noble Earl said, that "when he heard the petition 
came from ladies' boot and shoe makers, he thoughl it must 
bo against ' the corns which thov inllicUal «>u tho faix w eX ' " 



404 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



To talk now of starving, as great At — 1 said — • 

(And the nobles all cheer' d, and the bishops all 
wonder'd) 

When, some years ago, he and others had fed 

Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred ! 

It follows from hence — and the Duke's very words 
Should be pubhsh'd wherever poor rogues of this 
craft are, 

That weavers, once rescuea .'rum starving by Lords, 
Are bound to be starved by said Lords over after. 

When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians 
Made " Bread and the Circus" a cure for each row ; 

But not so the plan of our noble physicians, 

" No Bread and the Tread-mill 's" the regimen now. 

So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose, 
As I shall my poetry — neither convinces ; • 

And all we have spoken and written but shows, 
When you tread on a nobleman's corn, 2 how he 
winces. 



MORAL POSITIONS. 

A DREAM. 



" His Lordship said that it took a long time for a moral 
position to find its way across the Atlantic. He was sorry 
that its voyage had heen so long," etc. — Speech of Lord 
Dudley and Ward on Colonial Slavery, March 8. 

T'other night, after hearing Lord Dudley's oration 
(A treat that comes once in the year, as May-day 
does,) 

I dreamt that I saw — what a strange operation ! 
A "moral position" shipp'd off for Barbadoes. 

The whole Bench of Bishops stood by, in grave atti- 
tudes, 

Packing the article tidy and neat ; — 
As their Rev'rences know, that in southerly latitudes 

"Moral positions" don't keep very sweet. 

There was B — th — st arranging the custom-house 
pass; 
And, to guard the frail package from tousing and 
routing, 
There stood my Lord Eld — n, endorsing it " Glass," 
Though — as to which side should lie uppermost — 
doubting. 

The freight w r as, however, stow'd safe in the hold ; 
The winds were polite, and the moon look'd ro- 
mantic, 
While off in the good ship " the Truth" we were 
roll'd, 
With our ethical cargo, across the Atlantic. 



Long, dolefully long, seem d the voyage we made ;— 
For, " the Truth" at all times but a very slow sailer 

By friends, near as much as by foes, is delay'd, 
And few come aboard her, though so many hail 
her. 

At length, safe arrived, I went through "tare and 
tret" — 

Deliver'd my goods in the primest condition — 
And next morning read, in the Bridgetown Gazette, ' 

"Just arrived, by ' the Truth,' a new Moral Position; 

" The Captain" here, startled to find myself named 

As " the Captain" (a thing which, I own it with 
pain, 
I, through life, have avoided,) I woke— look'd 
asham'd — 
Found I wasn't a Captain, and dozed off again. 



1 The Duke of Athol said, that " at a former period, when 
these weavers were in great distress, the landed interest of 
Perth had supported 1,500 of them. It was a poor return 
tor these very men now to petition against the persons who 
tad fed them." 

2 An improvement, we flatter ourselves, on Lord L's. joke. 



MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK. 

MONDAY, MARCH 13. 

The Budget — quite charming and witty — no hearing, 
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were 
in it ; — 
Great comfort to find, though the Speech is n't cheer' 
ing, 
That all its gay auditors were, every minute. 

What, still more prosperity ! — mercy upon us, 
"This boy '11 be the death of me" — oft as, already 

Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us, 
For Ruin made easy there 's no one like Freddy. 

TUESDAY. 

Much grave apprehension express'd by the Peers, 
Lest — as in the times of the Peachums and Lock 
itts — 

The large stock of gold we 're to have in three years, 
Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets :' 

A Petition presented (well-timed, after this) 

Throwing out a sly hint to Grandees, who are 
hurld 

In their coaches about, that 't would not be amiss 
If they'd just throw a little more light on the world * 

A plan for transporting half Ireland to Canada, 3 
Which (briefly the clever transaction to state) is 

Forcing John Bull to pay high for what, any day, 
N — rb — ry, bless the old wag, would do gratis. 

Keeping always (said Mr. Sub. Horton) in mind, 
That while we thus draw off the claims on pota 
toes, 

We make it a point that the Pats, left behind, 
Should get no new claimants to fill the hiatus.* 



1 " Another objection to a metallic currency was, that it 
produced a greater number of highway rohberies." — Debate 
in the Lords. 

2 Mr. Estcourt presented a petition, praying that till per- 
sons should be compelled to have lamps in their carriages. 

3 Mr. W. Horton's motion on the subject of Emigration. 

4 " The money expended in transporting the Irish to 
Canada would be judiciously laid out, provided measures 
were taken to prevent the gap they left in the population 
from being fiiled up again. Government had always mada 
that a condition.'" — Mr. W. Horton's speech. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



405 



Sub. Horton then read a long letter, just come 

From the Canada Paddies, to say that these elves 
Have already grown "prosp'rous" — as we are, at 
home — 
And have e'en got " a surplus," poor devils, like 
ourselves !' 

WEDNESDAY 

Little doing — for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art, 
To the seven o'clock joys of full many a table, — 

When the Members all meet, to make much of the 
part, 
With which they so rashly fell out, in the Fable. 

It appear'd, though, to-night, that — as churchwar- 
dens, yearly, 
Eat up a small baby — those cormorant sinners, 
The Bankrupt-Commissioners, bolt very nearly 
A moderate-sized bankrupt, tout chaud, for their 
dinners ! 2 

Nota bene — a rumour to-day, in the city, 

"Mr. R-b-ns-n just has resign'd" — what a pity! 

The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing, 

When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin, 

While thus, to the nursery-tune, so pretty, 

A murmuring Stock-dove breathed her ditty :— 

Alas, poor Robin, he crow'd as long 

And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow : 
But his note was small, and the gold-finch's song 

Was a pitch too high for poor Robin to go. 

Who '11 make his shroud ? 

u I," said the Bank, " though he play'd me a prank, 
While I have a rag poor Rob shall be roll'd in't ; 

With many a pound I 'll paper him round, 
Like a plump rouleau — without the gold in 't." 



A HYMN OF WELCOME AFTER THE 
RECESS. 

rt Animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo." 

And now — cross-buns and pancakes o'er — 
Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more ! 

Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain ! 
The short eclipse of April-day 
Having (God grant it !) pass'd away, 

Collective Wisdom, shine again ! 

Come, Ayes and Noes, through thick and thin, 
With Paddy H — mes for whipper-in ; 

Whate'er the job, prepared to back it; 
Come, voters of Supplies — bestowers 
Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers, 

At eighty mortal pounds the jacket ! 3 



1 'The hon. gentleman then read a letter, which men- 
tioned 1 he prosperous condition of the writer; that he had 
on hand a considerable surplus of corn," etc. 

2 Mr. Abercromby's statement of the enormous tavern 
bills of the Commissioners of Bankrupts. 

3 An item of expense which Mr. Hume in vain endea- 
voured to get rid of: — trumpeters, like the men of All-Souls, 
must be " bene vestiti." 



Come — free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares— 
Ye Senators of many Shares, 

Whose dreams of premium knew no bound'ry 
So fond of aught like Company, 
That you would e'en have taken tea 

(Had you been ask'd) with Mr. Goundry !' 

Come, matchless country-gentlemen ; 
Come — wise Sir Thomas — wisest then 

When creeds and corn-laws are debated ! 
Come, rival e'en the Harlot Red, 
And show how wholly into bread 

A 'Squire is transubstantiated. 

Come, L e, and tell the world, 

That — surely as thy scratch is curl'd, 
As never scratch was curl'd before- 
Cheap eating does more harm than good, 
And working-people, spoil'd by food, 
The less they eat, will work the more. 

Come, G — Ib-rn, with thy glib defence 
(Which thou 'dst have made for Peter's Pencel 

Of Church-Rates, worthy of a halter; — 
Two pipes of port (old port 't was said, 
By honest Newport) bought and paid 

By Papists for the Orange Altar ! 2 

Come, H-rt-n, with thy plan so merry, 
For peopling Canada from Kerry — 

Not so much rendering Ireland quiet, 
As grafting on the dull Canadians 
That liveliest of earth's contagions, 

The 6«ZZ-pock of Hibernian riot ! 

Come all, in short, ye wond'rous men 
Of wit and wisdom, come again ; 

Though short your absence, all deplore it— 
Oh, come and show, whate'er men say, 
That you can, after April-Day, 

Be just as — sapient as before it. 



ALL IN THE FAMILY WAY. 

A NEW PASTORAL BALLAD. 

(Sung in the character of Britannia.) 

"The Public Debt was due from ourselves to ourselves, 
and resolved itself into a Family Account."— Sir Robert 
PeeVs Letter. 

Tune — My banks are all furnished with bees. 

My banks are all furnish'd with rags, 

So thick — even Fred cannot thin 'em ! 
I've torn up my old money-bags, 

Having nothing, worth while, to put in em. 
My tradesmen are smashing by dozens, 

But this is all nothing, they say ; 



1 The gentleman lately before the public, who kept his 
Joint-Stock Tea Company all to himself, singing " Te so- 
hi m ndoro." 

2 This charge of two pipes of port for the sacramental 
wine is a precious specimen of ihe sort of rates levied upon 
their Catholic fellow-parishioners by the Irish Protestants 

" The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
Doth ask a drink divine." 



406 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



For bankrupts, since Adam, are cousins, 
So it 's all in the family way. 

My Debt not a penny takes from me, 

As sages the matter explain ; — 
Bob owes it to Tom, and then Tommy 

Just owes it to Bob back again 
Since all have thus taken to owing, 

There 's nobody left that can pay; 
And this is the way to keep going, 

All quite in the family way. 

My senators vote away millions, 

To put in Prosperity's budget ; 
And though it were billions or trillions, 

The generous rogues would n't grudge it. 
'T is all but a family hop, 

'T was Pitt began dancing the hay ; 
Hands round ! — why the deuce should we stop ? 

'T is all in the family way. 

My labourers used to eat mutton, 

As any great man of the state does ; 
And now the poor devils are put on 

Small rations of tea and potatoes. 
But cheer up, John, Sawney, and Paddy, 

The King is your father, they say ; 
So, ev'n if you starve for your daddy, h 

'Tis all in the family way. 

My rich manufacturers tumble, 

My poor ones have little to chew ; 
And, ev'n if themselves do not grumble, 

Their stomachs undoubtedly do 
But coolly to fast enfamille 

Is as good for the soul as to pray ; 
And famine itself is genteel, 

When one starves in a family way. 

I have found out a secret for Freddy, 

A secret for next Budget-day ; 
Though, perhaps, he may know it already ; 

As he, too, 's a sage in his way. 
When next for the Treasury scene he 

Announces "the Devil to pay," 
Let him write on the bills— " Nota bene, 

'T is all in the family way." 



THE CANONIZATION OF ST. B-TT-RW-RTH. 

" A Christian of the best edition." — Rabelais. 

Canonize him ! — yea, verily, we '11 canonize him ; 

Though Cant is his hobby, and meddling his bliss, 
Though sages may pity and wits may despise him, 

He '11 ne'er make a bit the worse Saint for all this. 

Descend, all ye spirits that ever yet spread 

The dominion of Humbug o'er land and o'er sea, 

Descend on our B-tt-rw-rth's biblical head, 
Thrice-Great, Bibliopolist, Saint, and M. P. 

Come, shade of Joanna, come down from thy sphere, 
And bring little Shiloh — if 't is n't too far — 

Such a sight will to B-tt-rw-rth's bosom be dear, 
His conceptions and thine being much on a par. 



Nor blush, Saint Joanna, once more to behold 
A world thou hast honour'd by cheating so many 

Thou 'It find still among us one Personage old, 
Who also by tricks and the Seals 1 makes a penny 

Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee ! 2 
Thy smiles to beatified B-tt-rw-rth deign ; 

Two " lights of the Gentiles" are thou, Anne, and he, 
One hallowing Fleet-street, and f other Toad-lane ■' 

The heathen, we know, made their gods out of wood, 
And saints too, are framed of as handy mate- 
rials ; — 

Old women and B-tt-rw-rths make just as good 
As any the Pope ever boohed, as Ethereals. 

Stand forth, Man of Bibles — not Mahomet's pigeon, 
When, perch'd on the Koran, he dropp'd there, 
they say, 

Strong marks of his faith, ever shed o'er religion 
Such glory as B-tt-rw-rth sheds every day. 

Great Galen of souls, with what vigour he crams 
Down Erin's idolatrous throats, till thev crack 
again, 
Bolus on bolus, good man ! — and then damns 

Both their stomachs and souls, if they dare cast 
them back again. 

Ah, well might his shop — as a type representing 
The creed of himself and his sanctified clan — 

On its counter exhibit "the Art of Tormenting," 
Bound neatly, and letter'd " Whole Duty of Man 

As to politics — there, too, so strong his digestion, 
Having learn'd from the law-books, by which he 's 
surrounded, 

To cull all that 's worst on all sides of the question, 
His black dose of politics thus is compounded — 

The rinsing of any old Tory's dull noddle, 

Made radical-hot, and then mix'd with some grains 

Of that gritty Scotch gabble, that virulent twaddle, 
Which Murray's New Series of Blackwood con- 
tains. 

Canonize him ! — by Judas, we will canonize him ; 

For Cant is his hobby and twaddling his bliss. 
And, though wise men may pity and wits may des 
pise him, 

He '11 make but the better shop-saint for all this. 

Call quickly together the whole tribe of Canters, 
Convoke all the serious Tag-rag of the nation ; 

Bring Shakers and Snufiiers and Jumpers and Rant- 
ers, 
To witness their B-tt-rw-rth's Canonization ! 

Yea, humbly I 've ventured his merits to paint, 
Yea, feebly have tried all his gifts to portray ; 



1 A great part of the income of Joanna Southcott arose 
from the Seals of the Lord's protection which she sold t« 
her followers. 

2 Mrs. Ann Lee, the " chosen vessel" of the Shakers, and 
"Mother of all the children of regeneration." 

3 Toad-lane in Manchester, where Mother Lee was born. 
In her "Address to Young Believers," she says, that "it is 
a matter of no importance with them from whence iha 
means of their deliverance come, whether from a stable in 
Bethlehem, or from Toad-lane, Manchester " 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



407 



And they form a sum-total for making a saint, 
That the Devil's own Advocate could not gainsay 

Jump high, all ye Jumpers ! ye Ranters, all roar ! 

While B-tt-rw-rth's spirit, sublimed from your 
eyes, 
Like a kite made of fools-cap, in glory shall soar, 

With a long tail of rubbish behind, to the skies ! 



NEW CREATION OF PEERS. 

BATCH THE FIRST. 

" His 'prentice han' 
He tried on man, 
And then he made the lasses." 

"And now," quoth the Minister (eased of his panics, 
And ripe for each pastime the summer affords,) 

"Having had our full swing at destroying me- 
chanics, 
By way of set-off, let us make a few Lords. 

" 'T is pleasant — while nothing but mercantile frac- 
tures, 
Some simple, some compound, is dinn'd in our 
ears — 
To think that, though robb'd of all coarse manufac- 
tures, 
Wo still keep our fine manufacture of Peers ; — 

"Those Gobelin productions, which Kings take a pride 
In engrossing the whole fabrication and trade of; 

Choice tapestry things, very grand on one side, 
But showing, on t' other, what rags they are made 
of." 

The plan being fix'd, raw material was sought, 
No matter how middling, so Tory the creed be ; 

And first — to begin with — Squire W-rt-y, 't was 
thought, 
For a Lord was as raw a material as need be, 

Next came, with his penchant for painting and pelf, 
The tasteful Sir Ch-rl-s, so renown'd, far and near, 

For purchasing pictures, and selling himself, — 
And both (as the public well knows) very dear. 



Beside him comes L — c-st-r, with equal eclat, in ; — 
Stand forth, chosen pair, while for titles we mea- 
sure ye ; 

Both connoisseur baronets, both fond of drawing, 
Sir John, after nature, Sir Charles, on the Treasury. 

But, bless us ! — behold a new candidate come — 
In his hand he upholds a prescription, new written ; 

He poiseth a pill-box 't wixt finger and thumb, 
As he asketh a seat 'mong the Peers of Great Bri- 
tain ! 

"Forbid it," cried Jenky, "ye Viscounts, ye Earls !— 
Oh Rank, how thy glories would fall disenchanted, 

If coronets glisten'd with pills 'stead of pearls, 
And the strawberry-leaves were by rhubarb sup- 
planted ! 

"No — ask it not, ask it not, dear Doctor H-lf-rd — 
If nought but a Peerage can gladden thy life, 



And if young Master H-lf-rd as yet is too small for't, 
Sweet Doctor, we'll make a she Peer of thy wife. 

Next to bearing a coronet on our own brows 

Is to bask in its light from the brows of another, 

And grandeur o'er thee shall reflect from thy spouse, 
As o'er Vesey Fitzgerald 'twill shine through his 
mother."' 

Thus ended the First Batch — and Jenky, much tired, 
(It being no joke to make Lords by the heap,) 

Took a large dram of ether — the same that inspired 
His speech against Papists — and prosed off to sleep. 



CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY. 

UTRUM HORUM. — A CAMBRIDGE BALLAD. 

" I authorized my Committee to tane the step which they 
did, of proposing a fair comparison of strength, upon the 
understanding that whichever of the two should prove to be 
the weakest, should give way to the other. — Extract from 
Mr. W. J. Banker's Letter to Mr. Goulburn. 

"Nixa fisv ovP ctWoj, av AESaroi S'lysvovTO." 

Theocritus 



B-nkes is weak, and G — Ib-rn too, 
No one e'er the fact denied : — 

Which is " weakest' 1 '' of the two, 
Cambridge can alone decide. 

Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, 

Which is weakest, Cambridge, say. 

G — lb-rn of the Pope afraid is, 
B-nkes, as much afraid as he ; 

Never yet did two old ladies 
On this point so well agree. 

Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, 

Which is weakest, Cambridge, say. 

Each a different mode pursues, 

Each the same conclusion reaches ; 

B-nkes is foolish in Reviews, 
G — lb-rn, foolish in his speeches. 

Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, 

Which is weakest, Cambridge, say. 

Each a different foe doth damn, 
When his own affairs have gone ill ; 

B-nkes he damneth Buckingham, 
G — lb-rn damneth Dan O'Connel. 

Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, 

Which is weakest, Cambridge, say. 

B-nkes, accustom'd much to roam, 
Plays with truth a traveller's pranks ; 

G — lb-rn, though he stays at home, 
Travels thus as much as B-nkes. 

Choose between them, Cambridge, pray 

Which is weakest, Cambridge, say. 



Once, we know, a horse's neigh 
Fix'd the election to a throne ; 



1 Among the persons mentioned as likely to he raised to 
the Peerage are the mother of Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald, eto 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



So. which ever first shall bray, 

Choose him, Cambridge, for thy own. 
Choose him, choose him by his bray, 
Thus elect him, Cambridge, pray. 



LINES WRITTEN IN ST. STEPHEN'S CHA- 
PEL, AFTER THE DISSOLUTION. 

BY A MEMBER OF THE UPPER BENCHES. 

The King's speech toll'd the Commons' knell, 
The House is clear'd, the chair vacated, 

And gloom and loneliness now dwell 
Where Britain's wise men congregated. 

The gallery is dark and lone, 

No longer throng'd with curious folk, 

Happy to pay their good half-crown 
To hear bad speeches badly spoke. 

The Treasury seats no placemen show, 

Clear'd is each Opposition bench ; 
And even never-ending Joe 

No longer cries — "Retrench ! retrench I" 1 

Fred. R-b-ns-n no more his skill 

Employs in weaving speeches fair, 
The country gentlemen to fill 

With piomises as thin as air. 

Dick M-rt-n now no plan proposes 
To aid the brute part of the nation, 

While Members cough and blow their noses, 
To drown his most humane oration. 

Good Mr. B — gd-n where art thou, 

Most worthy C — rm-n of C-mm — tees 1 

To strip one laurel from thy brow 
Would surely be a thousand pities. 

'T was a good joke, forsooth, to think 

Thou shouldst give up thy honest winnings, 

And thereby own that thou didst wink, 
Pure soul ! at other people's sinnings. 2 

Where's PI — s, corruption's ready hack, 
Who life and credit both consumes 

In whipping in the Treasury pack, 
And jobbing in committee-rooms? 3 

I look around — no well-known face 

Along the benches meets my eye- 
No Member " rises in his place," 
For all have other fish to fry. 

Not one is left of K — s and sages, 
Who lately sat debating here ; 



1 "Really the Hon. Member for M e should take a 

little breath : his objections are most unfair; and, what is 
worse, they are never-ending" — See the Ch-n — 11— r of the 
Ex— q— r's speech in reply to Mr. H— e, Feb. 23, 1826. 

2 "Mr. B — gd-n said he certainly should not refund the 
money, because, by so doing, he should convict himself." — 
See the Report of a Meeting of the Proprietors of the Arig- 
na Mining Company. 

3 The bare-faced system of voting at private bill commit- 
tees, without having heard an iota of evidence for or against, 
forms a distinguished feature in the history of the late par- 
liament. 



The crowded hustings now engages 
Their every hope and every fear. 

Electors, rally to the poll, 

And L — d J — n R-ss-11 never heed : 
Let gold alone your choice control, 

The best man's he who best can bleed."* 

But if, too timid, you delay, 

(By Bribery Statute held in awe,) 

Fear not — there is a ready way 

To serve yourself and cheat the law. 

In times like these, when things are high. 

And candidates must be well fed, 
Your cabbages they '11 freely buy, 

Kind souls ! at two pounds ten a-head. 2 

Thus may we hope for many a law, 
And many a measure most discreet, 

When — pure as even the last we saw — 
Britain's new Parliament shall meet. 

Then haste, ye Candidates, and strive 
An M. P. to your names to tack ; 

And — after July twenty-five — 3 

Collective wisdom — welcome back I 



COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH. 

FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO 
ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS SATANIC MAJESTY 

St. James's- Street, July 1. 
Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch 

An official young Demon, preparing to go, 
Ready booted and spurr'd, with a black-leg despatch, 
From the Hell here, at Cr-ckf-rd's, to our Hell 
below — 

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic, 
To say that, first having obey'd your directions, 

And done all the mischief I could in " the Panic," 
My next special care was to help the Elections. 

Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul, 
When every good Christian tormented his brother 

And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal, 
From their all coming down, ready grill' d by each 
other ; 

Remembering, besides, how it pain'd thee to part 
With the old Penal Code, — that chef-d'oeuvre of 
Law, 
In which (though to own it too modest thou art) 
We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy 
claw ; 

I thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive 
(Though Eld-n, with help from your Highness 
would try) 



1 A maxim which has been pretty well acted on in the 
present elections. 

2 "During the election at Sudbury, four cabbnges sold 
for 101. and a plate of gooseberries fetched 251. the sellers, 
where these articles were so scarce, being voters." — Sea 
The Times of Friday, June 20. 

3 The day on which the writs are re'vrnable, and the new 
parliament is to meet pro forma 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



409 



T would still keep a taste for Hell's music alive, 
Could we get up a thund'ring No-Popery cry ; — 

That yell which, when chorus'd by laics and clerics, 
So like is to our?, in its spirit and tone, 

That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics, 
To think that Religion should make it her own. 

So, having sent down for the original notes 

Of the chorus, as sung by your Majesty's choir, 

With a few pints of lava, to gargle the throats 
Of myself and some others, who sing it "with 
fire," 1 

Though I "if the Marseillois Hymn could command 
Such audience, though yell'd by a Sans-culotLe 
crew, 

What wonders shall we do, who 've men in our band, 
That not only wear breeches, but petticoats too." 

Such then were my hopes ; but, with sorrow, your 
Highness, 
Pm forced to confess — be the cause what it will, 
Whether fewness of voices, or hoarseness, or shy- 
ness, — 
Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill. 

The truth is, no placeman now knows his right key, 

The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various; 
And certain base voices, that look'd for a fee 
. At the York music-meeting, now think it precarious. 

Even' some of our Reverends might have been war- 
mer — 

But one or two capital roarers we've had ; 
Doctor Wise 2 is, for instance, a charming performer, 

A«*d Huntingdon Maberly's yell was not bad. 

Altogetner, however, the thing was not hearty ;— 
Even Eld-n allows we got on but so so ; 

And, when next we attempt a No-Popery party, 
We must, please your Highness, recruit from below. 

But, hark, the young Black-leg is cracking his whip — 
Excuse me, Great Sir — there 's no time to be 
civil ; — 
The next opportunity shan't be let slip, 
But, till then, 

Pm, in haste, your most dutiful 

DEVIL. 



MR. ROGER DODSWORTH. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES. 
Sir, — Living in a remote part of Scotland, and 
having but just heard of the wonderful resurrection 
of Mr. Roger Dodsworth from under an avalanche, 
where he had remained, bienfrappe, it seems, for the 
last 166 years, ■ I hasten to impart to you a few re- 
• flections or. the subject. 
Yours, etc. 

LAUDATOR TEMPORIS ACTI. 

What a lucky turn-up !— just as Eld-n's withdrawing, 
To find thus a gentleman, frozen in the year 



1 Con fdoco—n music-book direction. 

2 This reverend gentleman distinguished himself at the 
Reading election. 

3 F 



Sixteen hundred and sixty who only wants thawing 
To serve for our times quite as well as the Peer;— 

To bring thus to light, not the wisdom alone 
Of our ancestors, such as we find it on shelves, 

But, in perfect condition, full-wigg'd and full-grown, 
To shovel up one of those wise bucks themselves ! 

Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth and send him safe home, — 

Let him learn nothing useful or new on the way ; 
With his wisdom kept snug, from the light let him 
come, 
And our Tories will hail him with "Plear" and 
" Hurra !" 

What a God-send to them — a good — obsolete man, 
Who has never of Locke or Voltaire been a 
reader ; — 
Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth, as fast as you can, 
And the L-nsd-les and H-rtf-rds shall chuse him for 
leader. 

Yes, sleeper of ages, thou shalt be their Chosen ; 

And deeply with thee will they sorrow, good men, 
To think that all Eurppe has, since thou wert frozen, 

So alter'd, thou hardly canst know it again* 

And Eld-n will weep o'er each sad innovation 
Such oceans of tears, thou wilt fancy that he 

Has been also laid up in a long congelation, 
And is only now thawing, dear Roger, like thee 



THE MILLENNIUM. 

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND 
MR. IRV-NG "ON PROPHECY." 

A Millennium at hand! — I'm delighted to hear it — 
As matters, both public and private, now go, 

With multitudes round us all starving, or near it, 
A good rich Millennium will come a propos. 

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold, 

Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags, 
A bran-new Jerusalem, built all of gold, 

Sound bullion throughout, from the roof to the 
flags— 
A city, where wine and cheap corn' shall abound,— 

A celestial Cocaigne, on whose buttery shelves 
We may swear the best things of this world will be 
found, 
As your saints seldom fail to take care of them- 
selves ! 

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures elysian, 2 
Divine Squintifobus, who, placed within reach 

Of two opposite worlds, by a twist of your vision 
Can cast, at the same time, a sly look at each ;— 

Thanks, thanks for the hope thou hast given us, that 
we 
May, even in our own times, a jubilee share, 
Which so long has been promised by prophets like 
thee, 
And so often has fail'd, we began to despait 



1 " A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures 
of barley for a penny." — Rev. c. 6. 

2 See ihe oration of this reverend gentleman, wWe he 
describes the connubial joys of paradise, and pimis the 
angels hovering around "each happy fair." 



410 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



There was Whiston, 1 who learnedly took Prince 
Eugene 

For the man who must bring the Millennium about ; 
There 's Faber, whose pious predictions have been 

All belied, ure his book's first edition was out; — 

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M. P., 
Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat, 

And, each day of his life, sat expecting to see 

A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh ! 2 

There was also — but why should I burden my lay 
With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less 
deserving, 

When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way 
To the last new Millennium of Orator Irv-ng. 

Go on, mighty man, — doom them all to the shelf— 
And, when next thou with Prophecy troublest thy 
sconce, 
Oh forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself 
Art the Beast (chapter 4) that sees nine ways at 
once! 



THE THREE DOCTORS. 

Doctoribus laetamur tribus. 

Though many great Doctors there be, 
There are three that all Doctors o'ertop, — 

Dr. Eady, that famous M. D. 
Dr. S — they, and dear Doctor Slop. 

The purger — the proser — the bard- 
All quacks in a diffeient style ; 

Dr. S — they writes books by the yard, 
Dr. Eady writes puffs by the mile ! 

Dr. Slop, in no merit outdone 

By his scribbling or physicking brother, 
Can dose us with stuff like the one, 

Ay, and doze us with stuff like the other. 

Dr. Eady good company keeps 

With "No Popery" scribes on the walls; 
Dr. S — they as gloriously sleeps 

With " No Popery" scribes, on the stalls. 

Dr. Slop, upon subjects divine, 
Such bedlamite slaver lets drop, 

That, if Eady should take the mad line, 
He'll be sure of a patient in Slop. 

Seven millions of Papists, no less, 
Dr. S— they attacks, like a Turk ; J 



1 When Whiston presented to Prince Eugene the Essay 
in which he attempted to connect his victories over the 
Turks with revelation, the Prince is said to have replied that 
" he was not aware he had ever had the honour of being 
known to St. John." 

2 Mr. Dobbs was a Member of the Irish Parliament, and, 
on all other subjects but the Millennium, a very sensible per- 
non. He chose Armagh as the scene of the Millennium, on 
account of the name Armageddon, mentioned in Revelation ! 

3 This Seraphic Doctor, in the preface to his last work 
(VindicicB Ecclisim Jlncrlicance,) is pleased to anathema- 
tize not cnly all Catholics, but all advocates of Catholics : — 
1 They have for their immediate allies (he says) every fac- 
*v>n that is banded against the State, every demagogue, 



Dr. Eady, less bold, I confess, 
Attacks but his maid of all work. 1 
• 

Dr. S — they, for 7ns grand attack, 
Both a laureate and senator is ; 

While poor Dr. Eady, alack, 

Has been had up to Bow-street, for his ! 

And truly, the law does so blunder, 

That, though little blood has been spilt, he 

May probably suffer as, under 

The Chalking Act, known to be guilty. 

So much for the merits sublime 

(With whose catalogue ne'er should I stop) 
Of the three greatest lights of our time, 

Doctor Eady and S — they and Slop ! 

Should you ask me, to which of the three 
Great Doctors the preference should fall, 

As a matter of course, I agree 
Dr. Eady must go to the wall. 

But, as S — they with laurels is crown'd, 
And Slop with a wig and a tail is, 

Let Eady's bright temples be bound 
With a swinging "Corona Muralis.'" 2 



EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER. 

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, 

Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, 

For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd 
A Viscount to a Marquis yet. 

Beside him place the God of Wit, 
Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, 

Apollo for a star he'd quit, 

And Love's own sister for an Earl's. 

Did niggard fate no peers afford, 

He took, of course, to peers' relations ; 

And, rather than not sport a lord, 
Put up with even the last creations. 

Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em 

With " Lord" and " Duke," were sweet to call 

And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum 
Was better than no Lord at all. 

Heaven grant him now some noble nook, . 

For, rest his soul, he'd rather be 
Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, 

Than saved in vulgar company. 



THE PETITION 

OF THE ORANGEMEN OF IRELAND. 

To the People of England, the humble Petition 
Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing— 



every irreligious and seilitious journals, every open and 
every insidious enemy to Monarchy and to Christianity." 

1 See the late accounts in the newspapers of the appear- 
ance of this gentleman at one of the police-offices, in conse- 
quence of an alleged assault upon his "maid of all work." 

2 A crown granted as a reward among the Romans to per- 
sons who performed any extraordinary exploits upon walls~- 
such as scaling them, battering them, etc. No doubt, 
writing upon them, to the extent that Dr. Eady does, would 
equally establish a claim to the honour. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



411 



That sad, very sad, is our present condition : — 
That our jobs are all gone, and our noble selves 
going ; 

That, forming one seventh — within a few fractions — 
Of Ireland's seven millions of hot heads and hearts, 

We hold it the basest of all base transactions 

To keep us from murdering the other six parts ; — 

That, as to laws made for the good of the many, 
We humbly suggest there is nothing less true ; 

As all human laws (and our own, more than any) 
Are made by and for a particular few ; — 

That much it delights every true Orange brother 
To see you, in England, such ardpur evince, 

In discussing which sect most tormented the other, 
And burn'd with most gusto, some hundred years 
since ; — 

That we love to behold, while Old England grows 
faint, 

Messrs. Southey and Butler near coming to blows, 
To decide whether Dunstan,that strong-bodied saint, 

Ever truly and really pull'd the devil's nose ; 

Whether t' other saint, Dominic, burnt the devil's 
paw — 
Whether Edwy intrigued with Elgiva's old mo- 
ther— 1 
And many such points, from which Southey doth 
draw 
Conclusions most apt for our hating each other. 

That 't is very well known this devout Irish nation 
Has now, for some ages gone happily on, 

Believing in two kinds of Substantiation, 
One party in Trans, and the other in Con ; 2 

That we, your petitioning Cons, have, in right 
Of the said monosyllable, ravaged the lands, 
And embezzled the goods, and annoy'd, day and 
night, 
Both the bodies and souls of the sticklers for 
Trans ; 

That we trust to Peel, Eldon, and other such sages, 
For keeping us still in the same state of mind ; 

Pretty much as the world used to be in those ages, 
When still smaller syllables madden'd mankind ; — 

When the words ex and per 3 served as well, to annoy 
One's neighbours and friends with, as con and trans 
now; 

And Christians, like Southey, who stickled for oi, 
Cut the throats of all Christians, who stickled for 

OU.* 



1 To such important discussions as these the greater part 
of Dr. Southey's Vindicice Ecclesice Anglican® is devoted. 

2 Consubstantiation — the true reformed belief; at least, 
the belief of Luther, and, as Mosheim asserts, of Melanc- 
thon also. 

3 When John of Ragusa went to Constantinople (at the 
time the dispute between " ex" and " per" was going on,) 
.ie found the Turks, we are told, " laughing at the Chris- 
tians for being divided by two such insignificant particles." 

4 The Arian controversy. — Before that time, say3 Hooker, 
v in order to be a sound believing Christian, men were not 
curious what syllables or particles of speech they used." J 



That relying on England, whose kindness already 
So often has help'd us to play the game o'er, 

We have got our red coats and our carabines ready 
And wait but the word to show sport, as before. 

That, as to the expense — the few millions, or so, 
Which for all such diversions John Bull has to 
pay— 
'T is, at least, a great comfort to John Bull to know 
That to Orangemen's pockets 't will all find ita 
Way. 

For which your petitioners ever will pray, 

etc. etc. etc. etc. etc 



A VISION. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF CHRISTABEL 

" Up !" said the Spirit, and, ere I could pray 
One hasty orison whirl'd me away 
To a limbo, lying — I wist not where — 
Above or below, in earth or air ; 
All glimmering o'er with a doubtful light, 
One could n't say whether 't was day or night , 
And crost by many a mazy track, 
One did n't know how to get on or back ; 
And, I felt like a needle that 's going astray 
(With its one eye out) through a bundle of hay ; 
When the Spirit he grinn'd, and whisper'd me, 
" Thou 'it now in the Court of Chancery !" 

Around me flitted unnumber'd swarms 
Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms ; 
(Like bottled up babes, that grace the room 
Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home) — 
All of them things half kill'd in rearing ; 
Some were lame — some wanted hearing ; 
Some had through half a century run, 
Though they had n't a leg to stand upon. 
Others, more merry, as just beginning, 
Around on a. point of law were spinning; 
Or balanced aloft, twixt Bill and Answer, 
Lead at each end — like a tight-rope dancer. — 
Some were so cross, that nothing could please 'em 
Some gulp'd down affidavits to ease 'm ; — 
All were in motion, yet never a one, 
Let it move as it might, could ever move on. 
"These," said the Spirit, "you plainly see, 
Are what are called Suits in Chancery '" 

I heard a loud screaming of old and young, 

Like a chorus by fifty Velutis sung ; 

Or an Irish Dump (" the words by Moore") 

At an amateur concert scream'd in score : — 

So harsh on my ear that wailing fell 

Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell ! 

It seem'd like the dismal symphony 

Of the shapes JEneas in hell did see ; 

Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cook 

Cut off, and left the frogs in the brook, 

To cry all night, till life s last dregs, 

"Give us our legs ! — give us our legs !" 

Touch'd with the sad and sorrowful scene, 

I ask'd what all this yell might mean ? 

When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee 

" T is the cry of the suitors in Chancery ; 



I Iook'd, and I saw a wizard rise, 

With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes. 

In his aged hand he held a wand, 

Wherewith he beckon'd his embryo band, 

And they moved, and moved, as he waved it o'er, 

But they never got on one inch the more ; 

And still they kept limping to and fro, 

Like Ariels round old Prospero — 

Saying, " Dear Master, let us go ;" 

But still old Prospero answer'd, " No." 

And I heard the while, that wnzard elf, 

Muttering, muttering spells to himself, 

While over as many old papers he turn'd, 

As Hume ere moved for, or Omar burn'd. 

He talk'd of his Virtue, though some, less nice, 

(He own'd with a sigh) preferr'd his Vice — 

And he said, "I think" — "I doubt" — " I hope," 

Call'd God to witness, and damn'd the Pope ; 

With many more sleights of tongue and hand 

I could n't, for the soul of me, understand. 

Amazed and posed, I was just about 

To ask his name, when the screams without, 

The merciless clack of the imps within, 

And that conjuror's mutlerings, made such a din, 

That, startled, I woke — leap'd up in my bed — 

Found the Spirit, the imps, and the conjurer fled, 

And bless'd my stars, right pleased to see 

That I was n't as yet, in Chancery. 



NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS. 
Dear Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper, 
When Parliament 's up, ever take in a paper, 
But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends 
As you chance to pick up from political friends — 
Being one of this well-inform'd class, I sit down, 
To transmit you the last newest news that 's in town. 

As to Greece and Lord Cochrane, things could n't 
look better — 

His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster) 
Had just taken Rhodes, and despatch'd off a letter 

To Daniel O'Connel, to make him Grand Master ; 
Engaging to change the old name, if he can, 
From the Knigms of St. John to the Knights of St. 

Dan)— 
Or, if Dan should prefer, as a still better whim, 
Being made the Colossus, 't is all one to him. 

From Russia the last accounts are, that the Czar- 
Most generous and kind, as all sovereigns are, 
And whose first princely act (as you know, 1 suppose,) 
Was to give away all his late brother's old clothes — 
Is now busy collecting, with brotherly care, 
The late Emperor's night-caps, and thinks of be- 
stowing 
One night-cap a-piece (if he has them to spare) 

On all the distinguish'd old ladies now going. 
(While I write, an arrival from Riga — "the Bro- 
thers" — 
Having night-caps on board for Lord Eld-n and 
others.) 

last advices from India — Sir Archy, 't is thought, 
Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught 



In N. lat. - 21.)— and his Highness Burmese, 
Being very hard prest to shell out the rupees, 
But not having much ready rhino, they say, meant 
To pawn his august golden foot 1 for the payment.- 
(How lucky for monarchs, that can, when they chuse 
Thus establish a running account with the Jews !) 
The security being what Rothschild calls " goot," 
A loan will be forthwith, of course, set on foot ;- 
The parties are Rothschild— A. Baring and Co., 
And three other great pawnbrokers — each takes a toe, 
And engages (lest Gold-foot should give us leg-bail, 
As he did once before) to pay down on the nail. 

This is all for the present, — what vile pens and paper ! 
Yours truly, dear Cousin,— best love to Miss Draper 



AN INCANTATION. 

SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT. 

Air—" Come with me, and we will go 
Where the rocks of coral grow." 

Come with me, and we will blow 
Lots of bubbles, as we go ; 
Bubbles, bright as ever Hope 
Drew from Fancy— or from soap ; 
Bright as e'er the South Sea sent 
From its frothy element ! 
Come with me, and we will blow 
Lots of bubbles as we go. 
Mix the lather, Johnny W-lkp, 
Thou who rhymest so well to " bilks : 
Mix the lather — who can be 
Fitter for such task than thee, 
Great M. P. for Sudsbmj I 

Now the frothy charm is ripe, 
Puffing Peter, bring thy pipe, — 
Thou, whom ancient Coventry, 
Once so dearly loved, that she 
Knew not which to her was sweeter, 
Peeping Tom or puffing Peter- 
Puff the bubbles high in air, 
Puff thy best to keep them there 
Bravo, bravo, Peter M — re ! 
Now the rainbow humbugs 3 soar, 
Glittering all with golden hues, 
Such as haunt the dreams of Jews — 
Some, reflecting mines that he 
Under Chili's glowing sky ; 
Some, those virgin pearls that 
Cloister'd in the southern deep 



1 This Potentate styles himself the Monarch of iheGoul- 
en Foot. 

2 Strong indications of character may be somerimes 
traced in the rhymes to names. Marvell thought io, whea 
he wrote 

" Sir Edward Sutton, 



The foolish knight who rhymes to mutton." 

3 An humble imitation of one of our modern poets, who 
in a poem against war, after describing the s| lendid habili 
ments of the soldier, apostrophizes him — " thou rainbow 
ruffian '" 



I 



* 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Others, as if lent a ray 
From the streaming Milky Way, 
G'istening o'er with curds and whey 
From the cows of Alderney ! 

Now 's the moment — who shall first 
Catch the bubbles ere they burst ? 
Run, ye squires, ye viscounts, run, 

Br-GD-N, T-YNH-M, P-LM-RST-N; — 

John W-lks, junior, runs beside ye, 
Take the good the knaves provide ye! 1 
See, with upturn'd eyes and hands, 
Where the GVtareman, 2 Br-gd-n, stands, 
Gaping for the froth to fall 
. Down his swallow — lye and all ! 
See! 

But hark, my time is out — ■ 
Now, like some great water-spout, 
Scatter'd by the cannon's thunder, 
Burst, ye bubbles, all asunder ! 

'Here the stage darkens, — a discordant crash is heard 
from the orchestra — the broken bubbles descend in a 
a saponaceotis but uncleanly mist over the heads of 
the Dramatis Persona, and the scene drops, leaving 
the bubble hunters — all in the suds.] 



A DREAM OF TURTLE. 

BY SIR W. CURTIS. 

T was evening time, in the twilight sweet 
I was sailing along, when — whom should I meet, 
But a turtle journeying o'er the sea, 
" On the service of his Majesty !" 3 

When I spied him first, in the twilight dim, 
I did not know what to make of him ; 
But said to myself— as low he plied 
His fins, and roll'd from side to side, 
Conceitedly over the watery path — 
" 'Tis my Lord of St-w-ll, taking a bath, 
And I hear him now, among the fishes, 
Quoting Vatel and Burgerdiscius !" 

But, no — 't was, indeed, a turtle, wide 

And plump as ever these eyes descried ; 

A turtle, juicy as ever yet 

Glued up the lips of a baronet ! 

Ah, much did it grieve my soul to see 

That an animal of such dignity, 

Like an absentee, abroad should roam, 

When he ought to stay and be ate, at home. 

But now, "a change came o'er my dream," 
Like the magic lantern's shifting slider;— 

I look'd, and saw by the evening beam, 
On the back of that turtle sat a rider,— 



1 " Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 

Take the good the gods provide thee." . 

2 So called by a sort of Tuscan dulcification of the ch, in the word 
* Chairman." 

3 We are told that the passport of the late grand diplomatic turtle de- 
scribed him ,\s " on his Majesty's service." 

dapibus supremi 

Grata testudo Jo via. 



A goodly man, with an eye so merry, 
I knew 't was our Foreign Secretary, 
Who there, at his ease, did sit and smile. 
Like Waterton on his crocodile ; 
Cracking such jokes, at every motion, 

As made the turtle squeak with glee, 
And own that they gave him a lively notion 

Of what his own/orced-meat balls would be 

So, on the Sec, in his glory, went, 

Over the briny element, 

Waving his hand, as he took farewell, 

With a graceful air, and bidding me tell 

Inquiring friends, that the turtle and he 

Were gone on a foreign embassy — 

To soften the heart of a Diplomate, 

Who is known to doat upon verdant fat, 

And to let admiring Europe see, 

That calipash and calipee 

Are the English forms of Diplomacy ! 



A VOICE FROM MARATHON. 

O for a voice, as loud as that of Fame, 

To breathe the word — Arise ! 
From Pindus to Taygetus to proclaim — 

Let every Greek arise ! 

Ye who have hearts to strike a single blow, 

Hear my despairing cries ! 
Ye who have hands to immolate one foe, 

Arise ! arise ! arise ! 

From the dim fields of Asphodel beneath, 

Upborne-by cloudy sighs 
Of those who love their country still in death,— 

E'en I — e'en J— arise ! 

These are not hands for earthly wringing — these !-— 
Blood should not blind these eyes ! — 

Yet here I stand, untomb'd Miltiades, 
Weeping — arise ! arise ! 

Hear ye the groans that heave this burial-field ?— 

Old Graecia's saviour-band 
Cry from the dust — " Fight on ! nor dare to yield ! 

Save ye our father-land ! 

" Blunt with your bosom the barbaric spear ! 

Break it within your breast ; 
Then come, brave Greek! and join your '.Mothers 
here 

In our immortal rest !" 

Shall modern Datis, swoln with Syrian pride, 

Cover the land with slaves 1 — 
Ay— let them cover it, both far and wide,— 

Cover it with their graves ! 

Much has been done — but more remains to do- ■ 

Ye have fought long and well! 
The trump that, on the Egean, glory blew, 

Seem'd with a storm to swell I 

Asia's grim tyrant shudder'd at the sound, 

He leap'd upon his throne ! 
Murmur'd his horse-tail'd chieftainry aroun.1- 

" Another Marathon J" 



414 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Dodona, 'mid her fanes and forests hoar, 

Heard it with solemn glee : 
And old Parnassus, with a lofty roar, 

Told it from sea to sea ! 

High-bosom'd Greece, through her unnumber'd vales, 

Broke forth in glorious song ! 
Her classic streams that plough the headlong dales, 

Thunder'd the notes along ' 

But there 's a bloodier wreath to gain, oh friends ! 

Now rise, or ever fall ! 
If ye fight now no fiercer than the fiends, 

Better not fight at all ! 

The feverish war-drum mingles with the fife 

In dismal symphony, 
And Moslem strikes at liberty and life — 

For both, strike harder ye ! 

Hark ! how Cithseron with his earthquake voice 

Calls to the utmost shores ! 
While Pluto bars, against the riving noise, 

His adamantine doors ! 

Athene, tiptoe on her crumbling dome, 

Cries — "Youth, ye must be men !" 
And Echo shouts within her rocky tomb,— 

" Greeks, become Greeks again !" 

The stone first brought, his living tomb to close, 

Pausanias' mother piled : 
Matrons of Greece ! will ye do less for foes, 

Than she did for her child ? 

Let boyhood strike ! — Let every rank and age 

Do each what each can do ! 
Let him whose arm is mighty as his rage, 

Strike deep — strike home — strike through! 

Be wise, be firm, be cautious, yet be bold ! 

Be brother-true ! be One ! 
I teach but what the Phrygian taught of old — 

Divide, and be undone ! 

Hallow'd in life, in death itself, is he 

Who for his country dies ; 
A light, a star, to all futurity — : 

Arise ye, then ! arise ! 

O countrymen ! O countrymen ! once more — 

By earth — and seas — and skies — 
By Heaven — by sacred Hades — I implore — 

Arise ! arise ! arise ! 



COTTON AND CORN. 

A DIALOGUE. 

Said Cotton to Corn, t" other day, 
As they met, and exchanged a salute— 

(Squire Corn in his cabriolet, 
Poor Cotton, half famish'd, on foot) 

" Great squire, if it is n't uncivil 
To hint at starvation before you, 

Look down on a hungry poor devil, 
And give him some bread, I implore you !" 



Quoth Corn then, in answer to Cotton, 
Perceiving he meant to make/ree, — 

" Low fellow, you 've surely forgotten 
The distance between you and me ! 

" To expect that we, peers of high birth, 
Should waste our illustrious acres 

For no other purpose on earth 

Than to fatten curst calico-makers ! — 

" That bishops to bobbins should bend, — 
Should stoop from their bench's sublimity, 

Great dealers in lavm, to befriend 
Your contemptible dealers in dimity ! 

" No — vile manufacturer ! ne'er harbour 
A hope to be fed at our boards ; 

Base offspring of Arkwright, the barber, 
What claim canst thou have upon lords ? 

" No — thanks to the taxes and debt, 
And the triumph of paper o'er guineas, 

Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet, 
Many defy your whole rabble of Jennys!" 

So saying, whip, crack, and away 
Went Corn in his cab through the throng, 

So madly, I heard them all say 
Squire Corn would be down, before long. 



THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS 

A FABLE. 

fessus jam sudat ascllus, 

Parce illi ; vestrum delicium est asinus.— Virgil Copa. 

A donkey, whose talent for burdens was wondrousj 
So much that you 'd swear he rejoiced in a load, 

One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous, 
That — down the poor donkey fell, smack on me 
road. 

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze — 
What ! -Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy 

So easy to drive through the dirtiest ways, 
For every description of job-work so ready ! 

One driver (whom Ned might have " hail'd" as a 
"brother")i 

Had just been proclaiming his donkey's renown, 
For vigour, for spirit, for one thing or other, — 

When, lo, 'mid his praises, the donkey came down 

But, how to upraise him ? — one shouts, f other whis- 
tles, 

While Jenky, the conjuror, wisest of all, 
Declared that an " over-production" of thistles — * 

(Here Ned gave a stare) — was'the cause of his fall 

Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes, — 
" There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease 



1 Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Co'eridge^s addressed 
to an ass, and beginning, "I hail thee, brother!" 

2 A certain country gentleman having said in the House, 
" that we must return at last to the food of our ancestors " 
somebody asked Mr. T." what food the gentleman meant?'' 
— " Thistles, I suppose," answered Mr. T 



. ,i 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



415 



The oeast has been fighting with other jack-asses, 
And this is his mode of 'transition to peace.' " 

Some look'd at his hoofs, and, with learned grimaces, 
Pronounced that too long without shoes he had 
gone — 

"Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis, 
(The wiseacres said,) and he 's sure to jog on." 

But others who gabbled a jargon half Gaelic, 
Exclaim'd, " Hoot awa, mon, you're a' gane 
astray,"— 

And declared that, " whoe'er might prefer the metallic, 
They'd shoe their own donkeys with papier mache." 

Meanwhile the poor Neddy, in torture and fear, 
Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan, 

And — what was still doleful ler — lending an ear 
To advisers whose ears were a match for his own. 

At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far 
As to see others' folly, roar'd out, as he pass'd — 

" Quick — off with the jxinniers, all dolts as ye are, 
Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last !" 



ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE. 

Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions! 

And oh, above all, I admire that decree, 
In which thou command'st that all she politicians 

Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea. 

'T is my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster — 
A maid, who her faith in old Jeremy puts ; 

Who talks, with a lisp, of " the last new Westminster" 
And hopes you 're delighted with " Mill upon 
Gluts ;" 

Who tells you how clever one Mr. F-nbl-nque is, 
How charming his Articles. 'gainst the Nobility; — 

And assures you, that even a gentleman's rank is, 
In Jeremy's school, of no sort of utility. 

To see her, ye Gods, a new Number devouring — 
Art. 1 — " On the Needle's variations," by Snip ; — 

Art 2 — " On the Bondage of Greece," by John 
B — R-NG 
(That eminent dealer in scribbling and scrip ;) — 

Art. 3 — " Upon Fallacies," Jeremy's own — 

(The chief fallacy being his hope to find readers ;) — 

Art 4 — " Upon Honesty," author unknown ; — 
Art. 5 — (by the young Mr. M — ) " Hints to Breed- 
ers." 

Oh Sultan, oh Sultan, though oft for the bag 
And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call — 

Though drowning 's too good for each blue-stocking 
hag, 
I would bag this she Benthamite first of them all! 

Ay, and — lest she should ever again lift her head 

From the watery bottom, her clack to renew, — 
As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead, 

would hang round her neck her own darling Re- 
view 



REFLECTIONS 

SUGGESTED BY A LATE CORRESPONDENCE ON THE 
CATHOLIC QUESTION. 

Poor Catholics, bitter enough, 

Heaven knows, are the doses you've taken ; 
You've swallovv'd down L-v-rp — l's stuff, 

His nonsense of ether, " well shaken ;" 
You've borne the mad slaver of Lees, 

And the twaddle of saintly Lord L-rt-n; 
But — worse, oh ye gods, than all these — 

You've been lectured by Mr. Sec. H-rt-n ! 

Alas for six millions of men ! 

Fit subjects for nought but dissection, 
When H-rt-n himself takes the pen, 

To tell them they 've lost his protection ! 
Ye sects, who monopolise bliss, 

While your neighbours' damnation you sport on, 
Know ye any damnation like this — 

To be cut by the Under Sec. H-rt-n ? 



THE GHOST OF MILTIADES. 

Ah quoties dubius Scriptis exarsit amator ! — Ovid. 

The ghost of Miltiades came at night, 
And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite, 
And he said, in a voice that thrill'd the frame, 
" If ever the sound of Marathon's name 
Hath fired thy blood, or flush'd thy brow, 
Lover of liberty, rouse thee now !" 

The Benthamite, yawning, left his bed — 

Away to the Stock Exchange he sped, 

And he found the scrip of Greece so high, 

That it fired his blood, it flush'd his eye, 

And oh ! 't was a sight for the ghost to see, 

For there never was Greek more Greek than he ! 

And still, as the premium higher went, 

His ecstasy rose — so much per cent. 

(As we see, in a glass that tells the weather, 

The heat and the silver rise together,) 

And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip, 

While a voice from his pocket whisper'd, " Scrip ' 

The ghost of Miltiades came again ; — 
He smiled, as the pale moon shines through rain, 
For his soul was glad at that Patriot strain ; 
(And, poor, dear ghost — how little he knew 
The jobs and tricks of the Philhellene crew !- 
" Blessings and thanks !" was all he said, 
Then melting away, like a night-dream, fled \ 

The Benthamite hears — amazed that ghosts 
Could be such fooisr— and away he posts, 
A patriot still ? Ah no, ah no — 
Goddess of Freedom, thy scrip is low, 
And, warm and fond as thy lovers are, 
Thou triest their passion when under par. 
The Benthamite's ardour fast decays, 
By turns, he weeps, and swears, and prays, 
And wishes the D — 1 had crescent and cross^ 
Ere he had been forced to sell at a loss 




They quote him the stock of various nations, 

But, spite of his classic associations, 

Lord ! how he loathes the Greek quotation.'' ' 

"Who'll buy my scrip ? Who'll buy my scrip?" 

Ts now the theme of the patriot's lip, 

As he runs to tell how hard his lot is 

To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis, 

And says, " Oh Greece, for liberty's sake, 

Do buy my scrip,- and I vow to break 

Those dark, unholy bonds of thine — 

If you'll only consent to buy up mine?' 

The ghost of Miltiades came once more; — 
His brow, like the night, was lowering o'er, 
And he said, with a look that flash'd dismay, 
" Of Liberty's foes the worst are they 
Who turn to a trade her cause divine, 
And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine !" 
Thus saying, the ghost, as he took his flight, 
Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite, 
Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry — 
And vanish'd away to the Stygian ferry ! 



CORN AND CATHOLICS. 

Utrum horum 

Dirius borum 1 — Incerti Auctores. 



Wuat ! still those two infernal questions, 
That with our meals, our slumbers mix — 

That spoil our tempers and digestions — 
Eternal Corn and Catholics ! 

Gods ! were there ever two such bores ? 

Nothing else talk'd of, night or morn — 
Nothing in doors or out of doors, 

But endless Catholics and Corn ! 

Never was such a brace of pests — 

While Ministers, still worse than either, 

Skill'd but in feathering their nests, 
Bore us with both, and settle neither. 

So addled in my cranium meet 

Popery and Corn, that oft I doubt, 
Whether, this year, 't was bonded wheat, 

Or bonded papists, they let out. 

Here landlords, here polemics, nail you, 
Arm'd with all rubbish they can rake up ; 

Prices and texts at once assail you — 
From Daniel these, and those from Jacob. 

And when you sleep, with head still torn, 
Between the two, their shapes you mix, 

Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn, — 
Then Corn again seems Catholics. 

Now Dantzic wheat before you floats— 

Now, Jesuits from California — - 
Now Ceres, link'd with Titus Oats, 

Comes dancing through the "Porta Cornea." 1 



1 The Horn Gate, through winch the ancients supposed 
all truo dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, etc.) to 
pass 



Oft, too, the Corn grows animate, 
And a whole crop of heads appears, 

Like Papists, bearding Church and State — 
Themselves, together by the ears .' 

While, leaders of the wheat, a row 

Of Poppies, gaudily declaiming, 
Like Counsellor O'Bric and Co., 

Stand forth, somniferously flaming ! 

In short, their torments never cease ; 

And oft I wish myself transferr'd olf 
To some far, lonely land of peace, 

Where Corn or Papist ne'er were heard of. 

Oh waft me, Parry, to the Pole ; 

For — if my fate is to be chosen 
'Twixt bores and ice-bergs — on my soul, 

I'd rather, of the two, be frozen ! 



CROCKFORDIANA 

EPIGRAMS. 
1. 

Mala vicini pecoris contagia lredunt. 
What can those workmen be about ? 
Do, C d, let the secret out, 

Why thus your houses fall. — 
Quoth he, " Since folks are not in town, 
I find it better to pull down, 

Than have no pull at all." 



2. 



See, passenger, at C- 



-d's high behest, 



Red coats by black-legs ousted from their nest,— 
The arts of peace, o'ermatching reckless war, 
And gallant Rouge undone by wily Noir .' 

3. 

Impar congressus 

Fate gave the word — the King of dice and cards 
In an unguarded moment took the Guards ; 
Contrived his neighbours in a trice to drub, 
And did the trick by — turning up a Club 

4. 

Nullum simile est idem. 
'T is strange how some will differ — some advance 
That the Guard's Club-House was pull'd down by 

chance ; 
While some, with juster notions in their mazard, 
Stoutly maintain the deed was done by hazard. 



THE TWO BONDSMEN. 

When Joseph, a Bondsman in Egypt, of old, 

Shunn'd the wanton embraces of Potiphar's dams 

She offer'd him jewels, she offer'd him gold, 
But more than all riches he valued his'fame. 

Oh Joseph ! thou Bondsman of Greece, can it be 

That the actions of namesakes so little agree ? 

Greek Scrip is a Potiphar's lady to thee. 

When with 13 per cent, she embellish'd her charms, 

Didst thou fly, honest Joseph ? Yes — into her an.^a 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



41? 



Oh Joseph ! dear Joseph ! bethink thee in time, 
And take a friend's counsel, though tender'd in rhyme. 
Refund, " honest" Joseph : how great were the shame, 
If, when posteriority 1 sits on thy name, 
They should sternly decree, 'twixt your namesake 

and you, 
That he was the Christian, and thou wGrt the Jew. 



THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS. 

A SALMAGUNDIAN HYMN. 

" To Panalgia was assigned the r.airrl-hip of Salmagundi, 
which wns yearly worth 6,789,106,789 ryals, besides the 
revenue of the Locusts and Periwinkles, amounting one 
year with another to the value of 2,-1-25,768, etc. etc." — 
Ba.bcla.is. 

"Hurra! Hurra!" I heard them say, 
And they cheerM and shouted all the way, 
As the Laird of Salmagundi went, 
To open in state his Parliament. 

The Salmagundians once were rich, 

Or thought they were — no matter which— 

For, every year, the Revenue 2 

From their Periwinkles larger grew ; 

And their rulers, skill'd in all the trick, 

And legerdemain of arithmetic, 

Knew how to place 1, 2, 3, 4, 

5, 6, 7, 8, and 9, and 10, 
Such various ways, behind, before, 
That they made a unit seem a score, 

And proved themselves most wealthy men ! 

So, on they went, a prosperous crew, 
The people wise, the rulers clever, — 

And God help those, like me and you, 

Who dared to doubt (as some now do) 

That the Periwinkle Revenue 

Would thus go flourishing on for ever. 

" Hurra ! hurra !" I heard them say, 
And they cheer'd and shouted all the way, 
As the Great Panurge in glory went, 
To open his own dear Parliament. 

But folks at length began to doubt 

What all this conjuring was about ; 

For, every day, more deep in debt 

They saw their wealthy rulers get : — 

* Let 'a look (said they) the items through, 

And see if what we're told be true 

Of our Periwinkle Revenue." 

But, lord, they found there was n't a tittle 

Of truth in aught they heard before ; 
For, they gain'd by Periwinkles little, 

And lost by Locusts ten times more ! 
These Locusts are a lordly breed 
Some Salmagundians love to feed. 



1 Remote posterity — a favourite word of the present 
Attorney-General's. 

2 Accented as in Swift's line — 

" Not so a nation's revenues are paid.** 
3G 



Of all the beasts that ever were born, 
Your Locust most delights in com ; 
And, though his body be but small, 
To fatten him takes the devil and all! 

Nor this the worst, for direr still, 

Alack, alack and a well-a-day ! 

Their Periwinkles, — once the stay 
And prop of the Salmagundian till — 
For want of feeding, all fell ill ! 

And still, as they thinn'd and died away, 
The Locusts, ay, and the Locusts' Kill 

Grew fatter and fatter every day ! 

" Oh fie ! oh fie !" was now the cry, 
As they saw the gaudy show go by, 
And the Laird of Salmagundi went 
To open his Locust Parliament ! 



A CASE OF LIBEL. 

A certain old Sprite, who dwells below 
(*T were a libel, perhaps, to mention where) 

Came up incog., some winters ai T a, 
To try for a change, the London air. 

So well he looked, and dress'd and talked, 
And hid his tail and his horns so handy. 

You'd hardly have known him, as he waik'd 
From *****, or any other Dandy. 

(N.B. — His horns, they say, unscrew ; 

So, he has but to take them out of the socket, 
And— just as some fine husbands do — 

Conveniently clap them into his pocket.) 

In short, he look'd extremely natty, 

And ev'n contrived — to his own great wondei 
By dint of sundry scents from Gattie, 

To keep the sulphurous hogo under. 

And so my gentleman hoofd about, 

Unknown to all but a chosen few 
At White's and Crockford's, where, no doubt 

He had many post-obits falling due. 

Alike a gamester and a wit, 

At night he was seen with Crockford's cievr , 
At morn with learned dames would sit — 

So pass'd his time 't wixt black and blue. 

Some wish'd to make him an M. P., 
Rut, finding W — Iks was also one, he 

Was heard to say "he 'd be d — d if he 
Would ever sit in one house with Johnny. 

At length, as secrets travel fast, 

And devils, whether he or she, 
Are sure to be found out at last. 

The affair got wind most rapidly. 

The press, the impartial press, that snubs 
Alike a fiend's or an angel's capers — • 

Miss Paton's soon as Beelzebub's — 

Fired off a squib in the morning papers : 

"We warn good men to keep aloof 
From a grim old Dandy, seen about, 



119 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



With a fire-proof wig, and a cloven hoof, 
Through a neat-cut Hoby smoking out." 

Now, the Devil being a gentleman, 

Who piques himself on his well-bred dealings, 
You may guess, when o'er these lines he ran, 

How much they hurt and shock'd his feelings. 

A.way he posts to a man of law, 
And oh, 't would make you laugh to 've seen 
'em, 
As paw shook hand, and hand shook paw, 
And 't was " hail, good fellow, well met," be 
tween 'em. 

Straight an indictment was preferr'd — 
And much the Devil enjoy'd the jest, 

When, looking among the judges, he heard 
That, of all the batch, his own was Best. 

In vain Defendant proffer' d proof 

That Plaintiffs self was the Father of Evil- 
Brought Hoby forth, to swear to the hoof, 

And Stultz, to speak to the tail of the Devil. 

The Jury — saints, all snug and rich, 

And readers of virtuous Sunday papers, 

Found for the Plaintiff— on hearing which 
The Devil gave one of his loftiest capers. 

For oh, it was nuts to the father of lies 
(As this wily fiend is named, in the Bible,) 

To find it settled by laws so wise, 
That the greater the truth, the worse the libel ! 



LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT. 

Wanted — Authors of all-work, to job for the sea- 
son, 

No matter which party, so faithful to neither : — 
Good hacks, who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason, 

Can manage, like *****, to do without either. 

If in gaol, all the better for out o'-door topics ; 

Your gaol is for travelers a charming retreat ; 
They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics, 

And sail round the world, at their ease, in the Fleet. 

For Dramatists, too, the most useful of schools — 
They may study high life in the King's Bench 
community : 
Aristotle could scarce keep them more within rules, 
And of place, they 're, at least, taught to stick to the 
unity. 

Any lady or gentleman come to an age 
To have good " Reminiscences" (three-score, or 
higher,) 
Will meat with encouragement — so much, per page, 
And the spelling and grammar both found by the 
buyer. 

No matter with what their remembrance is stock'd, 
So thpy '11 only remember the quantum desired ; — 

Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, oct., 

Price twenty-four shillings, is all that 's required. . 



They may treat us, like Kelly, with old jeux-d'cspnt^ 
Like Reynolds, may boait of each mountebank 
frolic, 
Or kindly inform us, like Madame Genlis, 1 
That ginger-bread cakes always give them the co- 
lick. 

There's nothing, at present, so popular growing 
As your Autobiographers — fortunate elves, 

Who manage to know all the best people going, 
Without having ever been heard of themselves ! 

Wanted, also, new stock of Pamphlets on Corn, 
By "Farmers" and "Landholders" — (gemmen* 
whose lands 
Enclosed all in bow-pots, their attics adorn, 

Or, whose share of the soil may be seen on tneii 
hands.) • 

No-Popery Sermons, in ever so dull a vein, 

Sure of a market; — should they, too, who pen 'em, 

Be renegade Papists, like Murtagh O'S-H-v-n, 2 
Something extra allow'd for the additional venom. 

Funds, Physic, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance, 
All excellent subjects for turning a penny ; — 

To write upon all is an author's sole chance 

For attaining, at last, the least knowledge of any. 

Nine times out often, if his title be good, 

His matter within of small consequence is ; — 

Let him only write fine, and, if not understood, 
Why, — that 's the concern of the reader, not Ids. 

N.B. — A learn'd Essay, now printing, to show, 
That Horace (as clearly as words could express « 

Was for taxing the Fund-holders, ages ago, 

When he wrote thus — " Quodcunque in Fund m 
assess i£." 3 



THE SLAVE 

I heard, as I lay, a wailing sound, 
" He is dead — he is dead," the rumour flew ; 

And I raised my chain, and turn'd me round, 
And ask'd, through the dungeon window, " who ?' 

I saw my livid tormentors pass ; 

Their grief 't was bliss to hear and see ; 
For never came joy to them, alas, 

That did n't bring deadly bane to me. 

Eager I look'd through the mist of night, 
And ask'd, "What foe of my race hath died ? 

Is it he — that Doubter of law and right, 
Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide— 

" Who, long as he sees but wealth to win, 
Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt 



1 This lady, in her Memoirs, also favours us wifh the ad 
dress of those apothecaries who have, from time to time, 
(riven her pills that agreed wilh her; — always desiring thai 
the pills should he ordered "comme pour elle." 

2 A gentleman, who distinguished himself by his evidence 
before the Irish Committees. 

3 According to the common reading " quodcunque infun 
dis, acescit." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



419 



WTiat suitors for justice he 'd keep in, 
Or what suitors for freedom he 'd shut out — 

u Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance, 
Stifles her (like the Old Man of the Sea 

Round Sinbad's neck,') nor leaves a chance 
Of shaking him oft'— is 't he 5 is 't he V 

Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled, 
And thursting me back to my den of woe, 

VVnh a laughter even more fierce and wild 
Than their funeral howling, answer'd, " No." 

But the cry still pierced my prison gate, 
And again I ask'd, " What scourge is gone ? 

Is it he — that Chief, so coldly great, 
Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon— 

"Whose name is one of th' ill omen'd words 
They link with hate on his native plains ; 

And why ? — they lent him hearts and swords, 
And he gave, in return, scoffs and chains ! 

Is it he ? is it he ?" I loud inquired, 
When, hark ! — there sounded a royal knell ; 
And .1 knew what spirit had just expired, 
And, slave as I was, my triumph fell. 



1 " You fell," said they, " into the hands of the old man 
of the sea, and are the first who ever escaped strangling by 
ha malicious tricks." — Story of Sinbad. 



He had pledged a hate unto me and mine. 
He had left to the future nor hope nor choice, 

But seal'd that hate with a name divine, 
And he now was dead, and — I could nH rejoice ! 

He had fann'd afresh the burning brands 

Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim ; 
He had arm'd anew my torturers' hands, 

And them did I curse — but sigh'd for him. 

For his was the error of head, not heart, 
And — oh, how beyond the ambush'd foe, 

Who to enmity adds the traitor's part, 
And carries a smile, with a curse below ! 

If ever a heart made bright amends 
For the fatal fault of an erring head — 

Go, learn his fame from the lips of friends, 
In the orphan's tear be his glory read. 

A prince without pride, a man without guile, 
To the last unchanging, warm, sincere, 

For worth he had ever a hand and smile, 
And for misery ever his purse and tear. 

Touch'd to the heart by that solemn toll, 

'. calmly sunk in my chains again ; 
While, still as I said, " Heaven rest his soul f" 
My mates of the dungeon sigh'd, "Amen !' 



ALCIPHRON. 



LETTER I. 

PROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON 
AT ATHENS. 

Well may you wonder at my flight 

From those fair Gardens, in whose bowers 
Lingers whate'er of wise and bright, 
Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light, 

Is left to grace this world of ours. 
Well may my comrades, as they roam, 

On evenings sweet as this, inquire 
Why I have left that happy home 

Where all is found that all desire, 

And Time hath wings that never tire; x 
Where bliss, in all the countless shapes 

That Fancy's self to bliss hath given, 
Comes clustering round, like road-side grapes 

That woo the traveller's lip, at even; 
Where Wisdom flings not joy away, — 
As Pallas in the stream, they say, 
Once flung her flute, — but smiling owns 
That woman's lip can send forth tones 
Worth all the music of those spheres 
So many dream of, but none hears ; 
Where Virtue's self puts on so well 

Her sister Pleasure's smile that, loth 
From either nymph apart to dwell, 

We finish by embracing both. 

Yes, such the place of bliss, I own, 
From all whose charms I just have flown; 
And ev'n while thus to ihee I write, 

And by the Nile's dark flood recline, 
Fondly, in thought, I wing my flight 
Back to those groves and gardens bright, 
And often think, by this sweet light, 

How lovelily they all must shine ; 
Can see that graceful temple throw 

Down the green slope its lengthen'd shade, 
While, on the marble steps below, 

There sits some fair Athenian maid, 
Over some favourite volume bending ; 

And, by her side, a youthful sage 
Holds back the ringlets that, descending, 

Would else o'ershadoyv all the page. 
But hence such thoughts ! — nor let me grieve, 
O'er scenes of joy that 1 but leave, 
As the bird quits awhile its nest 
To come again with livelier zest. 

And now to tell thee — what I fear 
Thou 'It gravely smile at — why I 'm here. 
Though through my life's short sunny dream, 

I 've floated without pain or care, 
Like a light leaf, down pleasure's stream, 

Caught in each sparkling eddy there; 
Though never Mirth awake a strain 
That my heart echoed not again ; 
Yet have I felt, when ev'n most gay, 

Sad thoughts — I knew not whence or why — 

Suddenly o'er my spirit fly, 
Like clouds, that, ere we 've time to say 

" How bright the sky is!" shade the sky. 
Sometimes so vague, so undefin'd 
Were these strange darkenings of my mind — ■ 



While nought hut joy around me beam'd 
So causelessly they 've come and flows 

That not of life or earth they seem'd, 
But shadows from some world unknown 

More oft, however, 't was the thought 
Plow soon that scene, with all its play 
Of life and gladness, must decay, — 

Those lips I prest, the hands I caught — 

Myself, — the crowd that mirth had b rough. 
Around me, — swept like weeds away ! 

This thought it was that came to shed 

O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys; 
And, close as shade with sunshine, wed 

Its sadness with my happiest joys. 
Oh, but for this disheart'ning voice 

Stealing amid our mirth to say 
That all, in which we most rejoice, 

Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey* 
But for this bitter — only this — 
Full as the world is brimm'd with bliss, 
And capable as feels my soul 
Of draining to its dregs the whole, 
I should turn earth to heav'n, and be, 
If bliss made Gods, a Deity ! 

Thou know'st that night — the very last 
That with my Garden friends I pass'd— - 
When the School held its feast of mirth 
To celebrate our founder's birth, 
And all that He in dreams but saw 
When he set Pleasure on the throne 
Of this bright world, and wrote her law 

In human hearts, was felt and known— 
Not in unreal dreams, but true, 
Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew, — 
By hearts and bosoms, that each felt 
Itself the realm where Pleasure dwelt. 

That night, when all our mirth was o'er, 

The minstrels silent, and the feet 
Of the young maidens heard no more— 

So stilly was the time, so sweet, 
And such a calm came o'er that scene, 
Where life and revel late had been — 
Lone as the quiet of some bay. 
From which the sea hath ebb'd away— 
That still I linger'd, lost in thought, 

Gazing upon the stars of night, 
Sad and intent, as if I sought 

Some mournful secret «n their light; 
And ask'd them, mid that silence, why 
Man, glorious man, alone must die, 
While they, less wonderful than he, 
Shine on through all eternity. 

That night — thou haply mafst forget 

Lis loveliness — but 't was a night 
To make earth's meanest slave regret 

Leaving a world so soft and bright. 
On one side, in the dark blue sky, 
Lonely and radiant, was the eye 
Of Jove himself, while, on the other, 

'Mong stars that came out one by one, 
The young moon — like the Roman mother ' 

Among her living jewels- hone. 



(420 



ALCIPHRON 



421 



"0 thnt from yonder orbs," I thought, 

* Pure and eternal as they are, 
There could to earth some power be brought, 
Some charm, with their own essence fraught, 

To make man deathless as a star, 
And open to his vast desires 

A course, as boundless and sublime 
As lies before those cornet-fires. 

That roam and burn throughout all time !" 

While thoughts like these a'osorb'd my mind, 

That weariness which earthly bliss, 
However sweet, still leaves behind, 

As if to show how earthly 't is, 
Came lulling o'er me, and I laid 

My limbs at that fair statue's base- 
That miracle, which Art hath made 

Of all the choice of Nature's grace- 
To which so oft. I 've knelt and sworn, 

That, could a living maid like her 
Unto this wondering world be born, 

I would, myself, turn worshipper. 

Sleep came then o'er me — and I seem'd 

To he transported far away 
To a bleak desert plain, where gleam'd 

One single, melancholy ray, 
Throughout that darkness dimly shed 

From a small taper in the hand 
Of one, who, pale as are the dead, 

Before me took his spectral stand, 
And said, while, awfully a smile 

Came o'er the wanness of his cheek — 
"Go, and beside the sacred Nile, 

You '11 find th' Eternal Life you seek." 

Soon as he spoke these words, the hue 
Of death upon his features grew — 
Like the pale morning, when o'er night 
She gains the victory — full of light; 
While the small torch he held became 
A glory in his hand, whose flame 
Briehten'd the desert suddenly, 

E'en to the far horizon's line — 
Alone whose level I could see 

Gardens and groves, that seem'd to shine, 
As if then freshly o'er them play'd 
A vernal rainbow's rich cascade, 
While music was heard every where, 
Breathing, as 't were itself the air, 
And spirits, on whose wings the hue 
Of heav'n still linger'd, round me flew, 
Till from all sides such splendors broke, 
That with the excess of light, I woke ! 

Such was mv dream — and, I confess, 

Though none of all our creed less school 
Hath e'er believ'd, or reveren/.'d less 

The fables of the priest-led fool, 
Who tells us of a soul, a mind, 
Separate and pure, within us shrin'd, 
Which is to live — ah, hope too bright!— 
For ever in yon fields of light — 
Who fondly thinks the guardian eyes 

Of gods are on him — as if, blest 
And blooming in their own blue skies, 
Th' eternal gods were not too wise 

To let weak man disturb their rest! 
Though thinking of such creeds as thou 

And all our Garden sages think, 
Yet is there something, I allow, 

In dreams like this — a sort of link 
With worlds unseen, which, from the hour 

I first could lisp my thoughts till now, 
Hath master'd me with spell-like power. 

And who can tell, as we 're combin'd 
Of various atoms — some refined, 



Like those that scintillate and play 
In the fixed stars, — some, gross as they 
That frown in clouds or sleep in clay, — 
Who can be sure, but 't is the best 

And brightest atoms of our frame, 

Those most akin to stellar flame, 
That shine out thus, when we 're at rest,— 
Ev'n as their kindred stars, whose light 
Comes out but in the silent night. 
Or is it that there lurks, indeed, 
Some truth in Man's prevailing creed, 
And that our guardians, from on high, 

Come, in that pause from toil and sin, 
To put the senses' curtain by, 

And on the wakeful soul look in ! 

Vain thought! — but yet, howe'er it be, 

Dreams, more than once, have prov'd to me 

Oracles, truer far than Oak, 

Or Dove, or Tripod ever spoke. 

And 'twas the words — thou 'It hear and smile— 

The words that phantom seem'd to speak — 
"Go, and beside the sacred Nile 

You '11 find the Eternal Life you seek, — " 
That, haunting me by night, by day, 

At length, as with the unseen hand 
Of Fate itself, urg'd me away 

From Athens to this Holy Land ; 
Where, 'mong the secrets, still untaught, 

The myst'ries that, as yet, nor sun 
Nor eye hath reach'd — oh blessed thought !— 

May sleep this everlasting one. 

Farewell — when to our Garden friends 
Thou talk'st of the wild dream that sends 
The gayest of their school thus far, 
Wandering beneath Canopus' star, 
Tell them that, wander where he will, 

Or, howsoe'er they now condemn 
His vague and vain pursuit, he still 

Is worthy of the School and them ; — 
Still, all their own, — nor e'er forgets, 

Ev'n while his heart and soul pursue 
Th' Eternal Light which never sets, 

The many meteor joys that do, 
But seeks them, hails them with delight 
Where'er they meet his longing sight. 
And, if his life must wane away, 
Like other lives, at least the day, 
The hour it lasts shall, like a fire 
With incense fed, in sweets expire. 



LETTER II. 



FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Memphh. 

T is true, alas— the mvsteries and the lore 
I came to studv on this wondrous shore, 
Are all forgotten in the new delights, 
The strange, wild joys that fill 'my days and nights 
Instead of dark, dull oracles that speak 
From subterranean temples, those /seek 
Come from the breathing shrines, where Beauty lives, 
And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives. 
Instead of honoring Isis in those rites 
At Coptos held, I hail her, when she lights 
Her first young crescent on the holy stream- 
When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam 
And number o'er the nights she hath to run, 
Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun. 
While o'er some mystic leaf, that dimly lends 
A clue into past times, the student bends, 



422 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



And by its glimmering guidance learns to tread 

Back through the shadowy knowledge of the dead, — 

The only skill, alas, /yet can claim 

Lies in deciphering some new lov ; d-one's name — 

Some gentle missive, hinting time and place, 

In language, soft as Memphian reed can trace. 

And where — oh where 's the heart that could with- 
stand, 
TV unnumbered witcheries of this sun-born land, 
Where first young Pleasure's banner was unfurl'd, 
And Love hath temples ancient as the world! 
Where mystery, like the veil by Beauty worn, 
Hides but to heighten, shades but to adorn; 
And that luxurious melancholy, born 
Of passion and of genius, sheds a gloom 
Making joy holy ; — where the bower and tomb 
Stand side by side, and Pleasure learns from Death 
The instant value of each moment's breath. 
Couldst thou but see how like a poet's dream 
This lovely land now looks ! — the glorious stream, 
That late, between its banks, was seen to glide 
'Mong shrines and marble cities, on each side 
Glittering like jewels strung along a chain, 
Hath now sent forth its waters, and o'er plain 
And valley, like a giant from his bed 
Rising with out-stretch'd limbs, hath grandly spread. 
While far as sight can reach, beneath as clear 
And blue a heav'n as ever bless'd our'sphere, 
Gardens, and pillar'd streets, and porphyry domes, 
And high-built temples, fit to be the homes 
Of mighty Gods, and pyramids, whose hour 
Outlasts all time, above the waters tower! 

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy, that make 

One theatre of this vast, peopled lake, 

Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives 

Of life and motion, ever moves and lives. 

Here, up the steps of temples from the wave 

Ascending, in procession slow and grave, 

Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands 

And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands; 

While there, rich barks — fresh from those sunny tracts 

Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts — 

Glide, with their precious lading to the sea, 

Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros ivory, 

Gems from the isle of Meroe, and those grains 

Of gold, wash'd down by Abyssinian rains. 

Here, where the waters wind into a bay 

Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims, on their way 

To Sais or Bubastus, among beds 

Of lotus flowers, that close above their heads, 

Push their light barks, and there, as in a bower, 

Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour — 

Oft dipping in the Nile, when faint with heat, 

That leaf, from which its waters drink most sweet. 

While haply, not far off, beneath a bank 

Of blossoming acacias, many a prank 

Is play'd in the cool current by a train 

Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she,* whose chain 

Around two conquerors of the world was cast, 

But, for a third too feeble, broke at last. 

For oh, believe not them, who dare to brand, 
As poor in charms, the women of this land. 
Though darken'd by that sun, whose spirit flows 
Through every vein, and tinges as it goes, 
T is but th' embrowning of the fruit that tells 
How rich within the soul of ripeness dwells, — 
The hue their own dark sanctuaries wear, 
Announcing heav'n in half-caught glimpses there. 
And never yet did tell-tale looks set free 
The secret of young hearts more tenderly. 
Such eyes ! — long, shadowy, with that languid fall 
Of the fring'd lids, which may be seen in all 



Who live beneath the sun's too ardent rays — 
Lending such looks as, on their marriage days 
Young maids cast down before a bridegroom's gaze. 
Then for their grace — mark but the nymph-like 

shapes 
Of the young village girls, when carrying grapes 
From green Anthylla, or light urns of flowers — 
Not our own Sculpture, in her happiest hours, 
E'er imag'd forth, even at the touch of himf 
Whose touch was life, more luxury of limb ! 
Then, canst thou wonder if, mid scenes like these, 
1 should forget all graver mysteries, 
All lore but Love's, all secrets but that best 
In heav'n or earth, the art of being blest ! 

Yet are there times, — though brief, I own, their stay, 

Like summer-clouds that shine themselves away, — 

Moments of gloom, when ev'n these pleasures pall 

Upon my sadd'ning heart, and I recall 

That Garden dream — that promise of a power, 

Oh were there such ! — to lengthen our life's hour 

On, on, as through a vista, far away 

Opening before us into endless day ! 

And chiefly o'er my spirit did this thought 

Come on that evening — bright as ever brought 

Light's golden farewell to the world — when first 

The eternal pyramids of Memphis burst 

Awfully on my sight — standing sublime 

'Twixt earth and heav'n, the watch-towers of Time, 

From whose lone summit, when his reign hath past 

From earth for ever, he will look his last ! 

There hung a calm and solemn sunshine round 

Those mighty monuments, a hushing sound 

In the still air that circled them, which stole 

Like music of past times into my soul. 

I thought what myriads of the wise and brave 

And beautiful had sunk into the grave, 

Since earth first saw these wonders — and I said 

" Are things eternal only for the Dead ? 

Is there for Man no hope — but this, which dooms 

His only lasting trophies to be tombs ! 

But 'tis not so — earth, heaven, all nature shows 

He may become immortal, — may unclose 

The wings within him wrapt, and proudly rise 

Redeera'd from earth, a creature of the skies ! 

" And who can say, among the written spells 
From Hermes' hand, that, in these shrines and cells 
Have, from the Flood, lay hid, there may not be 
Some secret clue to immortality, 
Some amulet, whose spell can keep life's fire 
Awake within us, never to expire ! 
'Tis known that, on the Emerald Tablet hid 
For ages in yon loftiest pyramid, 
The Thrice -Great§ did himself, engrave, of old, 
The chymic mystery that gives endless gold. 
And why may not this mightier secret dwell 
Within the same dark chambers ? who can tell 
But that those kings, who, by the written skill 
Of th' Emerald Table, call'd forth gold at will, 
And quarries upon quarries heap'd and hurl'd, 
To build them domes that might outstand the world— 
Who knows but that the heavenlier art, which shares 
The life of Gods with man, was also theirs — 
That they themselves, triumphant o'er the power 
Of fate and death, are living at this hour; 
And these, the giant homes they still possess, 
Not tombs, but everlasting palaces, 
Within whose depths, hid from the world above, 
Even now they wander, with the few they love, 
Through subterranean gardens, by a light 
Unknown on earth, which hath nor dawn nor night • 
Else, why those deathless structures? why the grand 
And hidden halls, that undermine this land ? 



Cleopatra. 



t Apelles. X See Notes on the Epicurean 

§ The Hermes Trismegistus. 



ALCIPHRON. 



423 



Why else hath none of earth e'er dared to go 
Through the dark windings of that realm below, 
Nor aught from heav'n itself, except the God 
Of Silence, through those endless labyrinths trod ?" 

Thus did I dream — wild, wandering dreams, I own, 
But such as haunt me ever, if alone, 
Or in that 'pause 'twixt joy and joy I be, 
Like a ship hush'd between two waves at sea, 
Then do these spirit whisperings, like the sound 
Of the Dark Future» come appalling round; 
Nor can 1 break the trance that hofds me then, 
Till high o'er Pleasure's surge I mount again ! 

Ev'n now for newadventure, new delight, 
My heart is on the wing — this very night, 
The Temple on that island, half-way o'er 
From Memphis' gardens to the eastern shore, 
Sends up its annual rite* to her, whose beams 
Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams; 
The nymph, who dips her urn in silent lakes, 
And turns to silvery dew each drop it takes; — 
Oh, not our Dian of the North, who chains 
In vestal ice the current of young veins, 
But she who haunts the gay Bubastiant grove, 
And owns she sees, from her bright heav'n above, 
Nothing on earth to match that heav'n but Love. 
Thinks then, what bliss will be abroad to-night! 
Beside, that host of nymphs, who meet the sight 
Day after day, familiar as the sun, 
Coy buds of beauty, yet unbreath'd upon, 
And all the hidden loveliness, that lies, 
Shut up, as are the beams of sleeping eyes, 
Within these twilight shrines — to-night will be, 
Soon as the Moon's white bark in heav'n we see, 
Let loose, like birds, for this festivity ! 

And mark, 't is nigh ; already the sun bids 

His evening farewell to the Pyramids, 

As he hath done, age after age, till they 

Alone on earth seem ancient as his ray; 

While their great shadows, stretching from the light. 

Look like the first colossal steps of Night, 

Stretching across the valley, to invade 

The distant hills of porphyry with their shade. 

Around, as signals of the setting beam, 

Gay, gilded flags on every house-top gleam: 

While, hark ! — irom all the temples a rich swell 

Of music to the Moon — farewell — farewell. 



LETTER III. 

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Memphis. 
There is some star — or it may be 

That moon we saw so near last night— 
Which comes athwart my destiny 

For ever, with misleading light. 
If for a moment, pure and wise 

And calm I feel, there quick doth fall 
A spark from some disturbing eyes, 
That through my heart, soul, being flies, 

And makes a wildfire of it all. 
I've seen — oh, Cleon, that this earth 
Should- e'er have giv'n such beauty birth ! — 
That man — but, hold — hear all that pass'd 
Since yester-night, from first to last. 

* The great Festival of the Moon. 

f Buba&tis, or Isis, was the Diana of the Egyptian mytho- 
fegy 



The rising of the Moon, calm, slow, 

And beautiful, as if she came 
Fresh from the Elysian bowers below, 

Was, with a loud and sweet acclaim 
Welcom'd from every breezy height, 
Where crowds stood waiting for her light. 
And well might they who view'd the scene 

Then lit up all around them, say, 
That never yet had Nature been 

Caught sleeping in a lovelier ray, 
Or nval'd her own noon-tide face, 
With purer show of moonlight grace. 

Memphis, — still grand, though not the same 

Unrivall'd Memphis, that could seize 
From ancient Thebes the crown of Fame, 

And wear it bright through centuries — 
Now, in the moonshine, that came down 

Like a last smile upon that crown, 
Memphis, still grand, among her lakes, 
, Her pyramids and shrines of fire, 
Rose, like a vision, that half breaks 
On one who, dreaming, still, awakes 

To music from some midnight choir : 
While to the west, where gradual sinks 

In the red sands, from Libya roll'd, 
Some mighty column, or fair sphynx, 

That stood, in kingly courts, of old, 
It seem'd as, mid the pomps that shone 
Thus, gaily round him, Time look'd on, 
Waiting till all, now bright and blest, 
Should fall beneath him like the rest. 



No sooner had the setting sun 
Proclaim'd the festal rite begun, 
And, mid their idol's fullest beams, 

The Egyptian world was all afloat, 
Than I, who live upon these streams, 

Like a young Nile-bird, turn'd my boat 
To the fair island, on whose shores, 
Through leafy palms and sycamores, 
Already shone the moving lights 
Of pilgrims, hastening to the rites. 
While, far around, like ruby sparks 
Upon the water, lighted baiks, 
Of every form and kind — from those 

That down Syene's cataract shoots, 
To the grand, gilded barge, that rows 

To sound of tambours and of flutes. 
And wears at night, in words of flame, 
On the rich prow, its master's name ; — 
All were alive, and made this sea 

Of cities busy as a hill 
Of summer ants, caught suddenly 

In the overflowing of a rill. 

Landed upon the isle, T soon 

Through marble alleys and small groves 

Of that mysterious palm she loves, 
Reach'd the fair Temple of the Moon; 
And there — as slowly through the last 
Dim-lighted vestibule I pass'd — 
Between the porphyry pillars, twin'd 

With palm and ivy, I could see 
A band of youthful maidens wind, 

In measur'd walk, half dancingly, 
Round a small shrine, on which was plac d 

That bird.t whose plumes of black and white 
Wear in their hue, by Nature trae'd, 

A type of the moon's shadow'd light 

In drapery, like woven snow 

These nymphs were clad, and each, below 



J The Ibis. 



424 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



The rounded "bosom, loosely wore 

A dark blue zone, or bandelet, 
With little silver stars all o'er, 

As are the skies at midnight, set. 
While in their tresses, braided through, 

Sparkled Ihe flower of Egypt's lakes, 
The silvery lotus, in whose hue 

As much delight the young Moon takes, 
As doth the Day-God to behold 

The lofty bean-flower's buds of gold. 
And, as ihey gracefully went round 

The worshipp'd bird, some to the beat 
Of castanets, some to the sound 

Of the shrill sistrum tim'd their feet; 
While others, at each step they took, 
A tinkling chain of silver shook. 

They seem'd all fair — but there was one 
On whom the light had not yet shone, 
Or shone but partly — so downcast 
She held her brow, as slow she pass'd. 
And yet to me, there seemed to dwell 

A charm about that unseen face — 
A something, in the shade that fell 

Over that brow's imagin'd grace, 
Which took me more than all the best 
Outshining beauties of the rest. 
And her alone my eyes could see, 
Enchain'd by this sweet mystery ; 
And her alone I watch'd, as round 
She glided o'er that marble ground, 
Stirring not more th' unconscious air 
Than if a Spirit had moved there. 
Till suddenly, wide open flew 
The Temple's folding gates, and threw 
A splendour from within, a flood 
Of Glory where these maidens stood. 
While, with that light, — as if the same 
Rich source gave birth to both, there came 
A swell of harmony, as grand 
As e'er was born of voice and hand, 
Filling the gorgeous aisles around 
With the mix'd burst of light and sound. 

Then was it, by the flash that blaz'd 

Full o'er her features — oh 'twas then, 
As startingly her eyes she rais'd, 

But quick let fall their lids again, 
I saw — not Psyche's self, when first 

Upon the threshold of the skies 
She paus'd, while heaven's glory burst 

Newly upon her downcast eyes, 
Could look more beautiful or blush 

With holier shame than did this maid, 
Whom now I saw, in all that gush 

Of splendour from the aisles, display'd. 
Never — tho' well thou know'st how much 

I 've felt the sway of Beauty's star — 
Never did her bright influence touch 

My soul into its depths so far ; 
And had that vision linger'd there 

One minute more, I should have flown, 
Forgetful who I was and where. 

And. at her feet in worship thrown, 

ProfTer'd my soul through life her own. 

But, scarcely had that burst of light 
And music broke on ear and sight, 
Than up the aisle the bird took wing, 

As if on heavenly mission sent, 
While after him, with graceful spring, 

Like some unearthly creatures, meant 

To live in that mix'd element 

Of light and song, the young maids went 
And she, who in my heart had thrown 
A spark to burn for life, was flown. 



In vain I tried to follow ; — bands 

Of reverend chanters fill'd the aisle : 
Where'er I sought to pass, their wands 

Motion'd me back, while many a file 
Of sacred nymphs— but ah, not they 
Whom my eyes look'd for — throng'd the way. 
Perplex'd, impatient, mid this crowd 
Of faces, lights — the o'erwhelming cloud 
Of incense round me, and my blood 
Full of its new-born fire, — I stood, 
Nor mov'd, nor breath'd, but when I caught 

A glimpse of some blue, spangled zone, 
Or wreath of lotus, which, I thought, 

Like those she wore at distance shone. 

But no, 't was vain — hour after hour, 

Till my heart's throbbing turn'd to pain, 
And my strain'd eyesight lost its power, 

I sought her thus, but all in vain. 
At length, hot, — wilder'd, — in despair, 
I rush'd into the cool night-air, 
And hurrying (though with many a look 
Back to the busy Temple) took 
My way along the moonlight shore, 
And sprung into my boat once more. 

There is a Lake, that to the north 
Of Memphis stretches grandly forth, 
Upon whose silent shore the Dead 

Have a proud City of their own * 
With shrines and pyramids o'erspread,— 
Where many an ancient kingly head 

Slumbers, immortaliz'd in stone; 
And where, throusrh marble grots beneath, 

The lifeless, rang'd like sacred things, 
Nor wanting aught of life but breath, 

Lie in their painted coverings, 
And on each new successive race, 

That visit their dim haunts below, 
Look with the same un withering face, 

They wore three thousand years ago. 
There, Silence, thoughtful God, who loves 
The neighbourhood of death, in groves 
Of asphodel lies hid, and weaves 
His hushing spell among the leaves, — 
Nor ever noise disturbs the air, 

Save the low, humming, mournful sound 
Of priests, within their shrines, at prayer 

For the fresh Dead entomb'd around. 



'T was tow'rd this place of death — in mood 

Made up of thoughts, half bright, half dark— 
I now across the shining flood 

Unconscious turn'd my light-wing' d bark. 
The form of that young maid, in all 

Its beauty, was before me still; 
And oft I thought, if thus to call 

Her image to my mind at will, 
If but the memory of that one 
Bright look of hers, for ever gone, 
Was to my heart worth all the rest 
Of woman-kind, beheld, possest — 
What would it be, if wholly mine, 
Within these arms, as in a shrine, 
Hallow'd by Love, I saw her shine, 
An idol, worshipp'd by the light 
Of her own beauties, day. and night>— ' 
If 't was a blessing but to see 
And lose again, what would this be ? 

In thoughts like these — but often crost 
By darker threads — my mind was lost, 



* Necropoli 
Memphis. 



or the City of the Dead, to the south of 



ALCIPHRON, 



425 



Till, near that City of the Dead, 

Wak'd from my trance, 1 saw o'erhead— 

As if by some enchanter bid 

Suddenly from the wave to rise — > 
Pyramid over pyramid 

Tower in succession to the skies; 
While one, aspiring, as if soon 

'T would touch the heavens, rose o'er all; 
And, on its summit, the white moon 

Rested, as on a pedestal! 

The silence of the lonely tombs 

And temples round, where nought was heard 
But the high palm-tree's tufted plumes, 

Shaken, at times, by breeze or bird, 
Form'd a deep contrast to the scene 
Of revel, where 1 late had been; 
To those gay sounds, that still came o'er, 
Faintly, from many a distant shore, 
And th' unnumber'd lights, that shone 
Far o'er the flood, from Memphis on 
To the Moon's Isle and Babylon. 

My oars were lifted, and my boat 

Lay rock'd upon the rippling stream ; 
While my vague thoughts, alike afloat, 

Drifted through many an idle dream, 
With all of which, wild and unfix'd 
As was their aim, that vision mix'd, 
That bright nymph of the Temple — now 
With the same innocence of brow 
She wore within the lighted fane, — 
Now kindling, through each pulse and vein 
With passion of such deep-felt fire 
As Gods might glory to inspire ; — 
And now — oh Darkness of the tomb, 

That must eclipse ev'n light like hers! 
Cold, dead, and blackening mid the gloom 

Of those eternal sepulchres. 

Scarce had I turn'd my eyes away 

From that dark death-place, at "the thought, 
When by the sound of dashing spray 

From a light oar my ear was caught, 
While past me, through the moonlight, sail'd 

A little gilded bark, that bore 
Two female figures, closely veil'd 

And mantled, towards that funeral shore. 
They landed — and the boat again 
Put off across the watery plain. 

Shall I confess — to thee I may — 

That never yet hath come the chance 
Of a new music, a new ray 

From womartte voice, from woman's glance, 
Which — let it find me how it might, 

Jn joy or grief — I did not bless, 
And wander after, as a light 

Leading to undreamt happiness. 
And chiefly now, when hopes so vain, 
Were stirring in my heart and brain, 
When Fancy had allur'd my soul 

Into a chase, as vague and far 
As would be his, who fix'd his goal 

In the horizon, or some star — 
Any bewilderment, that brought 
More near to earth my high-flown thought— 
The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure, 
Less high and heavenly, but more sure, 
Came welcome — and was then to me 
What the first flowery isle must be 
To vagrant birds, blown out to sea. 

Quick to the shore I urged my bark, 
And, by the bursts of moonlight, shed 

Between the lofty tombs, could mark 
Those figures, as with hasty tread 
3H 



They glided on — till in the shade 

Of a small pyramid, which through 
Some boughs of palm its peak di&piay'd, 
They vanish'd instant from my view. 
I hurried to the spot — no trace 
Of life was in that lonely place ; 
And, had the creed I hold by taught 
Of other worlds, I might have thought 
Some mocking spirits had from thence 
Come in this guise to cheat my sense. 

At length, exploring darkly round 
The Pyramid's smooth sides, 1 found 
An iron portal, — opening high 

'Twixt peak and base — and, with a pray'r 
To the bliss-loving moon, whose eye 

Alone beheld me, sprung in there. 
Downward the narrow stairway led 
Through many a duct obscure and dread, 

A labyrinth for mystery made, 
With wanderings onward, backward, round, 
And gathering still, where'er it wound, 

But deeper density of shade. 

Scarce had I ask'd myself " Can aught 

That man delights in sojourn here ?" — 
When, suddenly, far off, 1 caught 

A glimpse of light, remote, but clear, — 
Whose welcome glimmer seem'd to pour 

From some alcove or cell, that ended 
The long, steep, marble corridor, 

Through which I now, all hope, descended. 

Never did Spartan to his bride 
With warier foot at midnight glide. 
It seem'd as echo's self were dead 
In this dark place, so mute my tread, 
Reaching, at length, that light, I saw— 

Oh listen to the scene, now raised 
Before my eyes, then guess the awe, 

The still, rapt awe with which I gazed. 
'Twas a small chapel, lin'd around 
With the fair, spangling marble, found 
In many a ruin'd shrine that stands 
Half seen above the Libyan sands. 
The walis were richly sculptur'd o'er, 
And character'd with that dark lore 
Of times before the Flood, whose key 
Was lost in th' * Universal Sea,' — 
While on the roof was pictured bright 

The Theban beetle, as he shines, 

When the Nile's mighty flow declines, 
And forth the creature springs to light, 
With life regenerate in his wings : 
Emblem of vain imaginings! 
Of a new world, when this is gone, 
In which the spirit still lives on ! 

Direct beneath this type, reclin'd 

On a black granite altar, lay 
A female form, in crystal shrin'd, 

And looking fresh as if the ray 

Of soul had fled but yesterday, 
While in relief, of silvery hue, 

Graved on the altar's front were seen 
A branch of lotus, brok'n in two, 

As that fair creature's life had been, 
And a small bird that from its spray 
Was winging, like her soul, away. 

But brief the glimpse I now could spare 
To the wild, mystic wonders round ; 

For there was yet one wonder there, 
That held me as by witchery bound. 

The lamp, that through the chamber shed 

Its vivid beam, was at the head 



426 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Of her who on that altar slept ; 

And near it stood, when first I came, — 
Bending her brow, as if she kept 

Sad watch upon its silent flame — 
A female form, as yet so plac*d 

Between the lamp's strong glow and me, 
That I but saw, in outline trac'd, 

The shadow of her symmetry. 
Yet did my heart — I scarce knew why — < 
Ev'n at that shadow'd shape beat high. 
Nor long was it, ere full in sight 
The figure turn'd ; and, by the light 
That touch'd her features, as she bent. 
Over the crystal monument, 
I saw 't was she — the same — the same — 

That lately stood before me — bright'ning 
The holy spot, where she but came 
And went again, like summer lightning ! 

Upon the crystal, o'er the breast 
Of her who took that silent rest, 
There was a cross of silver lying — 
Another type of that blest home, 
Which hope, and pride, and fear of dying- 
Build for us in a world to come : — 
This silver cross the maiden rais'd 
To her pure lips ; — then, having gazed 
Some minutes on that tranquil face, 
Sleeping in all death's mournful grace, 
Upward she turn'd her brow serene, 
As if, intent on heaven, those eyes 
Saw then nor roof nor cloud between 

Their own pure orbits and the skies; 
And, though her lips no motion made, 

And that fix'd look was all her speech, 
I saw that the rapt spirit pray'd 
Deeper within than words could reach. 

Strange pow'r of Innocence, to turn 

To its own hue whate'er comes near ; 
And make even vagrant Passion burn 

With purer warmth within its sphere! 
She who, but one short hour before, 
Had come, like sudden wild-fire, o'er 
My heart and brain, — whom gladly, even 

From that bright Temple, in the face 
Of those proud ministers of heaven, 

I would have borne, in wild embrace, 
And risk'd all punishment, divine 
And human, but to make her mine ; — 
That maid was now before me, thrown 

By fate itself into my arms — 
There standing, beautiful, alone, 

With nought to guard her, but her charms. 
Yet did I — oh did ev'n a breath 

From my parch'd lips, too parch'd to move, 
Disturb a scene where thus, beneath 

Earth's silent covering, Youth and Death 

Held converse through undying love? 
No — smile and taunt me as thou wilt — 

Though but to gaze thus was delight, 
Yet seem'd it like a wrong, a guilt, 

To win by stealth so pure a sight ; 
And rather than a look profane 

Should then have met those thoughtful eyes, 
Or voice, or whisper broke the chain 

That link'd her spirit with the skies, 
I would have gladly, in that place, 
From which I watch'd her heav'n-ward face 
Let my heart break, without one beat 
That could disturb a prayer so sweet. 

Gently, as if on every tread, 

My life, my more than life depended, 

Back through the corridor that led 
To this blest scene I now ascended, 

And with slow seeking, and some pain, 



And many a winding tried in vain 
Emerg'd to upper air again. 

The sun had freshly ris'n, and down 

The marble hills-of Araby, 
Scatter'd, as from a conqueror's crown, 

His beams into that living sea. 
There seem'd a glory in his light, 

Newly put on — as if for pride 
Of the high homage paid this night 

To his own Isis, his young bride, 
Now fading feminine away 
In her proud Lord's superior ray. 

My mind's first impulse was to fly 
At once from this entangling net — 

New scenes to range, new loves to try, 

Or, in mirth, wine and luxury 
Of every sense, that night forget. 

But vain the effort — spell-bound still, 

I linger'd, without power or will 

To turn my eyes from that dark door, 

Which now enclos'd her 'mong the dead ; 
Oft fancying, through the boughs, that o'er 
The sunny pile their flickering shed, 

'T was her light form again I saw 

Starting to earth — still pure and bright, 

But wakening, as I hop'd, less awe, 
Thus seen by morning's natural light, 
Than in that strange, dim cell at night. 

But no, alas, — she ne'er return'd : 

Nor yet — tho' still I watch — nor yet, 
Though the red sun for hours hath bnrn'd, 

And now, in his mid course, had met 
The peak of that eternal pile 

He pauses still at noon to bless, 
Standing beneath his downward smile, 

Like a great Spirit, shadowless! 
Nor yet she comes — while here, alone, 

Saunt'ring through this death-peopled place, 
Where no heart beats except my own, 
Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown, 

By turns I watch.'and rest, and trace 
These lines, that are to waft to thee 
My last night's wondrous history. 

Dost thou remember, in that Isle 

Of our own Sea, where thou and I 
Linger'd so long, so happy a while, 

Till all the summer flowers went by— • 
How gay it was when sunset brought 

To the cool Well our favourite maids — 
Some we had won, and some we sought— 

To dance within the fragrant shades, 
And, till the stars went down, attune 
Their Fountain Hymns* to the young moon? 

That time, too — oh, 'tis like a dream — 

When from Scamander's holy tide 
I sprung, as Genius of the Stream, 

And bore away that blooming bride, 
Who thither came, to yield her charms 

(As Phrygian maids are wont, ere wed) 
Into the cold Scamander's arms, 

But met, and welcom'd mine, instead- 
Wondering, as on my neck she fell, 
How river-gods could love so well! 
Who would have thought that he, who rov'd 

Like the first bees of summer then, 
Rifling each sweet, nor ever lov'd 

But the free hearts, that lov'd again, 
Readily as the reed replies 
To the last breath that round it sighs— 



♦These Songs of the Well, as they were called by the ar> 
cients, are still common in the Greek isles- 



ALCIPHRON. 



427 



fs the same dreamer who, last night. 
Stood avv'd and breathless at the sight 
Of one Egyptian girl; and now 
Wanders among these tombs, with brow 
Pale, watchful, sad, as tho' he just, 
Himself had ris'n from out their dust ! 

Yet, so it is — and the same thirst 

For something high and pure, above 
This withering world, which, from the first 

Make me drink deep of woman's love, 
As the one joy, to heav'n most near 
Of all our hearts can meet with here, — 
Still burns me up, still keeps awake 
\ fever nought but death can slake. 

Farewell ; whatever may befall, — 
Or bright, or dark — thou 'It know it all. 



LETTER IV. 

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

/Vonders on wonders ; sights that lie 

Where never sun gave flow'ret birth; 
Bright marvels, hid from th' upper sky, 
And myst'ries that are born and die 

Deep in the very heart of earth ! — 
All that the ancient Orpheus, led 

By courage that Love only gives, 
Dar'd lor a matchless idol, dead, 

I 've seen and dar'd for one who lives. 

Again the moon was up. and found 
The echoes of my feet still round 
The monuments of this lone place ;— 

Or saw me, if awhile my lid 
Yielded to sleep, stretch'd at the base 

Of that now precious Pyramid, 
In slumbe: that the gentlest stir, 
The stillest, air-like step of her, 
Whom ev'n in sleep I watch'd, could ohase. 
And then, such various lbrms she seem'd 
To wear belbre me, as I dream'd ! — 

Now, like Neitha, on her throne 

At Sai's, all reveal'd she shone, 

With that dread veil thrown off her brow, 

Which mortal never rais'd till now ;* 

Then, quickly chang'd, methought 'twas she 

Of whom the Memphian boatmen tells 
Such wondrous tales — fair Rhodope, 

The subterranean nymph, that dwells 
'Mid sunless gems and glories hid, 
The Lady of the Pyramid ! 

At length, from one of these short dreams 
Starling — as if the subtile beams, 
Then playing o'er my brow, had brought 
Some sudden light into my thought — 
Down for my boat-lamp to the shore, 

Where still it palely burn'd, 1 went; 
Resolv'd that night to try once more 

The mystery of this monument. 

Thus arm'd, I scarce had reach'd the gate, 
When a loud screaming — like the cry 

Of some wild creature to its mate — 

Came staniing from the palm-grove nigh ;- 



* See, for the veil of Neitha, the inscription upon her 
p'e, as given by Plutarch de Is.et Osir. 



Or, whether haply 't was the creak 

Of those Lethaean porials.t said 
To give thus out a mournful shriek, 

When oped at midnight for the dead. 
Whate'cr it was, the sound came o'er 

My heart like ice, as through the doo» 
Of the small Pyramid 1 went, 
And down the same abrupt descent, 
And through long windings, as before, 
Reach'd the steep marble corridor. 

Trembling I stole along — the light 
In the lone chapel still burn'd on ; 

But she, for whom my soul and sight 

Look'd with a thirst so keen, was gone, — 

By some invisible path had fled 

Into that gloom, and left the Dead 

To its own solitary rest, 

Of all lone things the loneliest. 

As still the cross, which she had kiss'd, 

Was lying on the crystal shrine, 
I took it up, nor could resist 

(Though the dead eyes, I thought, met mine) 
Kissing it too, while, half ashamed 
Of that mute presence, I exclaimed, 
" Oh Life to Come, if in thy sphere 

Love, Woman's love, our heav'n could be 
Who would not ev'n forego it here, 

To taste it there eternally?" 
Hopeless, yet with unwilling pace, 
Leaving the spot, I turn'd to trace 
My pathway back, when, to the right, 
I could perceive, by my lamp's light, 
That the long corridor which, viewed 

Through distance dim, had seem'd to end 
Abruptly here, still on pursued 

Its sinuous course, with snake-like bend 
Mocking the eye, as down it wound 
Still deeper through that dark profound. 

Again, my hopes were rais'd, and, fast 

As the dim lamp-light would allow, 
Along that new-found path I past, 

Through countless turns ; descending now 
By narrow ducts, now, up again, 
'Mid columns, in whose date the chain 
Of time is lost: and thence along 
Cold halls, in which a sapless throng 
Of Dead stood up, with glassy eye 
Meeting my gaze., as I went by. — 
Till, lost among these winding ways, 

Coil'd round and round, like serpents' folds, 
I thought myself in that dim maze 

Down under Moeris' Lake, which holds 
The hidden wealth of the Twelve Kings, 
Safe from all human visitings. 
At length, the path clos'd suddenly; 

And, by my lamp, whose glimmering fell 
Now faint and fainter, I could see 

Nought but the mouth of a huge well, 
Gaping athwart my onward track, — 
A reservoir of darkness, black 
As witches' caldrons are, when fill'd 
W T ith moon-drugs in th' eclipse distill'd. 
Leaning to look if foot might pass 
Down through that chasm, I saw, beneath, 

As far as vision could explore, 
The jetty sides all smooth as glass, 

Looking as if just varnish'd o'er 
With that dark pitch the Sea of Death 
Throws out upon its slimy shore. 



t The brazen portals at Memphis, mentioned by Zorgt 
called the Gates of Oblivion. 



428 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Doubting awhile; yet loth to leave 

Anght unexplor'd, the chasm J trier! 
With nearer search; and could perceive 

An iron step that from the side 
Stood dimly out; while, lower still, 
Another ranged, less visible, 
But aptly plac'd, as if to aid 
Th' adventurous foot, that dar'd the shade. 
Though hardly 1 could deem that e'er 
Weak woman's foot had ventured there, 
Yet, urged along by the wild heat 
That can do all things but retreat, 
I placed my lamp, — which lor such task 
Was aptly shaped, like cap or casque 
To fit the brow, — firm on my head, 

And down into the darkness went; 
Still finding for my cautious tread 

New foot-hold in that deep descent, 
Which seem'd as tho' 'twould thus descend 
In depth and darkness without end. 
At length, this step-way ceas'd ; in vain 
I sought some hold, that would sustain 
My down-stretch'd foot — the polish 'd side, 
Slippery and hard, all help denied: 
Till, as 1 bow'd my lamp around, 

To let its now faint glimmer fall 
On every side, with joy I found 

Just near me, in the shining wall, 
A window (which had 'scap'd my view 
In that half shadow) and sprung through. 
'T was downward still, but far less rude — 
By stairs that through the live rock wound 
In narrow spiral round and round, 
Whose giddy sweep my foot pursued 
Till, lo, before a gate I stood, 
Which oped, I saw, into the same 
Deep well, from whence but now I came. 
Th* doors were iron, yet gave way 
Ligcltly before me, as the spray 
Of a young lime-tree, that receives 
Some wandering bird among its leaves. 
But, soon as I had pass'd, the din, 

Th' o'erwhelming din, with which again 
They clash'd their folds, and closed me in, 

Was such as seldom sky or main, 
Or heaving earth, or all, when met 

In angriest strife, e'er equall'd yet. 
It seem'd as if the ponderous sound 
Was by a thousand echoes hurl'd 
From one to th' other, through the round 

Of this great subterranean world, 
Till, far as from the catacombs 
Of Alexandria to the Tombs 
In ancient Thebes's Valley of Kings, 
Rung its tremendous thunderings. 
Yet could not ev'n this rude surprise, 

Which well might move far bolder men, 
One instant turn my charmed eyes 

From the blest scene that hail'd them then. 
As I had rightly deem'd, the place 
Where now I stood was the well's base, 
The bottom of the chasm ; and bright 
Before me, through the massy bars 
Of a huge gate, there came a light 

Soft, warm, and welcome, as the stars 
Of his own South are to the sight 
Of one, who, from his sunny home, 
To the chill North had dar'd to roam. 

And oh the scene, now opening through 

Those bars that all but sight denied! — 
A long, fair alley, far as view 

Could reach away, along whose side 
Went, lessening to the end, a row 

Of rich arcades, that, from between 
Their glistening pillars, sent a glow 

Of countless lamps, burning unseen, 



And that still air, as from a spring 
Of hidden light, illumining. 

While — soon as the wild echoes rous'd 
From their deep haunts again were hous'd, — 
I heard a strain of holy song 

Breathing from out the bright arcades 
Into that silence — where, among 

The high sweet voices of young maids, 
Which, like the small and heav n-ward spire 

Of Christian temples, crovvn'd the choir, ' 
I fancied, (such the fancy's sway) 

Though never yet my ear had caught 
Sound from her lips — yet, in that lay 

So worthy of her looks, methought 
That maiden's voice I heard, o'er all 

Most high and heavenly, — to my ear 
Sounding distinctly, like the call 

Of a far spirit from its sphere. 

But vain the call — that stubborn gate 

Like destiny, all force defied. 
Anxious I look'd around — arid, stiaight, 

An opening to the left descried, 
Which, though like hell's own mouth it seenVtl, 
Yet Jed, as by its course I deem'd 
Parallel with those lighted ways 
That 'cross the alley pour'd their blaze. 
Fager 1 stoop'd, this path to tread, 
When, suddenly, the wall o'er-head 
Grew with a fitful lustre bright, 
Which, settling gradual on the sight 
Into clear characters of light, 
These words on its dark ground I read. — 

" You, who would try 
This terrible track, 
To live, or to die, 
But ne'er to look back; 

"You, who aspire 

To be purified there 
By the terrors of Fire 
And Water and Air; 

"If danger and pain 

And death you despise — 
On — for again 

Into light you may rise, — 

' "Rise into light 

With that Secret Divine 
Now shrouded from sight 
By the V'eils of the Shrine ! 

« But if " 



The words here dimm'd away 
Till, lost in darkness, vague and dread, 
Their very silence seem'd to say 

Avvfuller things than words e'er said. 

" Am I then in the path," I cried, 

" To the Great Mystery ? shall I see, 
And touch, — perhaps, ev'n draw aside 
Those venerable veils, which hide 

The secret of Eternity !" 
This thought at once reviv'd the zeal, 

The thirst for Egypt's hidden lore 
Which I had almost ceas'd to feel, 

In the new dreams that won me o'er. 
For now — oh happiness! — it seem'd 
As if both hopes belore me beam'd — 
As if that spirit-nymph, whose tread 

I trac'd down hither from above, 
To more than one sweet treasure led— 
Lighting me to the fountain-head 

Of Knowledge by the star of Love. 



ALCIPHRON. 42'J 


Instant I enter'd — though the ray 


I made one bold and fearful bound, 


Of my spent lamp was near its last, — 


And on the step firm footing found. 


And quick through many a channel-way, 




Ev'n ruder than the former, pass'd ; 


But short that hope — for, as I flew 


Till, just as sunk the farewell spark, 


Breathlessly up, the stairway grew 


I spied before me, through the dark, 


Tremulous under me, while each 


A paly fire, that moment raised, 


Frail step, ere scarce my foot could reach 


Which still as [ approaeh'd it, blazed 


The frailer yet I next must trust, 


With stronger light, — till, as I came 


Crumbled behind me into dust ; 


More near, I saw my pathway led 


Leaving me, as it crush'd beneath, 


Between two hedges of live flame, — 


Like shipwreck'd wretch who, in dismay, 


Trees all on fire, whose branches shed 


Sees but one plank 't wixt him and death, 
And shuddermg feels that one give way! 


A glow that, without noise or smoke, 


Yet strong as from a furnace, broke ; 


And still I upward went — with nought 


While o'er the glaring ground between, 


Beneath me but that depth of shade, 


Where my sole, onward path was seen, 


And the dark flood, from whence I caught 


Hot iron bars, red as with ire, 


Each sound the falling fragments made. 


Transversely lay — such as, they tell, 


Was it not fearful? — still more frail 


Compose that trellis-work of fire, 


At every step crash'd the light stair, 


Through which the Doom'd look out in hell. 


While, as I mounted, ev'n the rail 




That up into that murky air 


To linger there was to be lost — 


Was my sole guide, began to fail! — 


More and still more the burning trees 


When stretching forth an anxious hand, 


Clos'd o'er the path ; and as 1 crost — 


Just as, beneath my tottering stand, 


With tremour both in heart and knees- 


Steps, railway, all, together went, 


Fixing my foot where'er a space 


I touch'd a massy iron ring, 


'T wixt the red bars gave resting-place, 


That there — by what kind genius sent 


Above me, each quick burning tree, 


I know not — in the darkness hung ; 


Tamarind, Balm of Araby, 


And grasping it, as drowners cling 


And Egypt's Thorn combined to spread 


To the last hold, so firm I clung, 


A roof of fire above my head, 


And through the void suspended swung. 


Yet safe — or with but harmless scorch— 




I trod the flaming ordeal through ; 


Sudden, as if that mighty ring 


And promptly seizing, as a torch 


Were link'd with all the winds in heav'n, 


To light me on to dangers new. 


And, like the touching of a spring, 


A fallen bough that kindling lay 


My eager grasp had instant given 


Across the path, pursued my way. 


Loose to all blasts that ever spread 




The shore or sea with wrecks and dead- 


Nor went I far before the sound 


Around me, gusts, gales, whirlwinds rang 


Of downward torrents struck my ear; 


Tumultuous, and I seem'd to hang 


And, by my torch's gleam, I found 


Amidst an elemental war, 


That the dark space which yawn'd around, 


In which wing'd tempests — of all kinds 


Was a wide cavern, far and near 


And strengths that winter's stormy star 


Fill'd with dark waters, that went by 


Lights through the Temple of the Winds 


Turbid and quick, as if from high 


In our own Athens — battled round, 


They late had dash'd down furiously; 


Deafening me with chaotic sound. 


Or, awfuller, had yet that doom 


Nor this the worst — for, holding still 


Before them, in the untried gloom. 


With hands unmov'd, though shrinking oft, 


No pass appear'd on either side ; 


I found myself, at the wild will 


And tho' my torch too feebly shone 


Of countless whirlwinds, caught aloft, 


To show what scowl'd beyond the tide, 


And round and round, with fearful swing, 


I saw but one way left me — on ! 


Swept, like a stone-shot in a sling! 


So, plunging in, with my right hand 


Till breathless, mazed, I had begun, — 


The current's rush I scarce withstood, 


So ceaselessly I thus was whirl'd, — 


While, in my left, the failing brand 


To think my limbs were chain'd upon 


Shook its last glimmer o'er the flood. 


That wheel of the Infernal World, 


'T was a long struggle — oft I thought, 


To turn which, day and night, are blowing 


That, in that whirl of waters caught, ' 


Hot, withering winds that never slumber; 


I must have gone, too weak for strife, 


And whose sad rounds, still going, going, 


Down, headlong, at the cataract's will- 


Eternily alone can number! 


Sad fate for one, with heart and life 


And yet, ev'n then — while worse than Fear 


And all youth's sunshine round him still! 


Hath ever dreamt seem'd hovering near, 


But, ere my torch was wholly spent, 


Had voice but ask'd me, " is not this 


I saw, — outstretching from the shade 


A price too dear for aught below ?" 


Into those waters, as if meant 


I should have said " for knowledge, yes — 


To lend the drowning straggler aid — 


But for bright, glorious Woman — no." 


A slender, double balustrade, 




With snow-white steps between, ascending 


At last, that whirl, when all my strength 


From the grim surface of the stream. 


Had nearly fled, came to an end; 


Far up as eye could reach, and ending 


And, through that viewless void, at length, 


In darkness there, like a lost dream. 


I felt the still-grasp'd ring descend 


That glimpse — for 'twas no longer — gave 


Rapidly with me, till my feet — 


New spirit to my strength ; and now, 


Oh, ne'er was touch of land so sweet 


With both arms combating the wave, 


To the long sea-worn exile — found 


I rush'd on blindly, till my brow 


A resting-place on the firm ground. 


Struck on that railway's lowest stair; 


At the same instant o'er me broke 


When, gathering courage from despail, 


A glimmer through that gloom so chill.— 



430 



MOORE'S WORKS. 



Like day-light, when beneath the yoke 
Of tyrant darkness struggling still — 

And by th' imperfect gleam it shed, 

I saw before me a rude bed, 

Where poppies, strew'd upon a heap 

Of wither'd lotus, wooed to sleep. 

Blessing that couch — as I would bless, 
Ay, ev'n the absent tiger's lair, 

For rest in such stark weariness, — 
I crawl'd to it and sunk down there. 

How long T slept, or by what means 

Was wafted thence, I cannot say; 
But, when I woke — oh the bright scenes 

The glories that around me lay — 
If ever yet a vision shone 
On waking mortal, this was one ! 
But how describe it? vain, as yet, 

While the first dazzle dims my eyes, 
All vain the attempt — I must forget 

The flush, the newness, the surprise, 
The vague bewilderment, that whelms, 

Ev'n now, my every sense and thought, 
Ere I can paint these sunless realms, 

And their hid glories, as I ought. 
While thou, if ev'n but half I tell 
Wilt that but half believe — farewell! 



LETTER V. 

FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO 
DECIUS, THE PRiETORlAN PREFECT. 

Rejoice, my friend, rejoice: — the youthful Chief 
Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief, 
And, gay and godless, makes the present hour 
Its only heaven, is now within our power. 
Smooth, impious school ! — not all the weapons aimed 
At priestly creeds, since first a creed was framed, 
E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield, 
The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers 

conceal'd. 
And oh, 't were victory to this heart, as sweet 
As any thou canst boast, — ev'n when the feet 
Of thy proud war-steed wade through Christian blood, 
To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood, 
And bring him, tamed and prostrate, to implore 
The vilest gods ev'n Egypt's saints adore. 

What! — do these sages think, to them alone 

The key of this world's happiness is known? 

That none but they, who make such proud parade 

Of Pleasure's smiling favours, win the maid, 

Or that Religion keeps no secret place, 

No niche, in her dark fanes, for Love to grace? 

Pools !— did they know how keen the zest that's given 

To earthly joy, when season'd well with heaven ; 

How Piety's grave mask improves the hue 

Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen through, 

And how the Prie'st, set aptly within reach 

Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each, 

Would they not, Decius,— thou, whom th' ancient tie 

'T wixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally, — 

Would they not change their creed, their craft, forours? 

Leave the gross daylight joys, that, in their bowers. 

Languish with too much sun, like o'er-blovvn flowers, 

For the veil'd loves, the blisses undisplay'd 

That slily lurk within the Temple's shade? 

And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school,— 

Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule, 

Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide ; 

Where pleasure, cram p'd and chill'd by wisdom's pride, 



Counts her own pulse's regulated play, 
And in dull dreams dissolves her life away, — 
Be taught by us, quit shadows for the true, 
j Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue. — 
Who, far too wise to theorize on bliss, 
Or pleasure's substance for its shade to miss, 
Preach other worlds, but live for only this: 
Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung, 
Which, like its type, the golden cloud that hung 
O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign, 
Round human frailty wraps a veil divine. 

Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they 

Alone despise the craft of us who pray; — 

Still less their creedless vanity deceive 

With the fond thought, that we who pray believe. 

Believe! — Apis forbid — forbid it, all 

Ye monster Gods, before whose shrines we fall, — 

Deities, framed in jest, as if to try 

How far gross Man can vulgarize the sky ; 

How far the same low fancy that combines 

Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs, 

And turns that Heaven itself into a place 

Of sainted sin and deified disgrace, 

Can bring Olympus ev'n to shame more deep, 

Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap. 

Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood, 

Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food, — 

All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees 

In dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities! 

Believe ! — oh, Decius, thGU, who hast no care 

Of things divine, beyond the soldier's share, 

Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds, 

A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs, — 

Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs 

Loose as thy summer war-cloak, guess the pangs 

Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart, 

Stubborn as mine is, acts the zealot's part, — 

The deep and dire disgust with which I wade 

Through the foul juggling of this holy trade, — 

This mud profound of mystery, where the feet, 

At every step, sink deeper in deceit. 

Oh ! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze, 

O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise, 

Did 1 not keep still proudly in my mind 

The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind,— 

A lever, of more might, in skilful hand, 

To move this world, than Archimede e'er plann'd,— 

I should, in vengeance of the shame I feel 

At my own mockery, crush the slaves that kneel 

Besotted round; and, — like that kindred breed 

Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed, 

At famed Arsinoe,* — make my keepers bless, 

With their last throb, my sharp-fang'd Holiness. 

Say, is it to be borne, that scoffers, vain 

Of their own freedom from the altar's chain, 

Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold, 

And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold ? 

It must not be : — think'st thou that Christian sect, 

Whose followers, quick as broken waves, erect 

Their crests anew and swell into a tide, 

That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride — 

Think'st thou, with all their wondrous spells, ev'n they 

Would triumph thus, had not the constant play 

Of Wit's resistless archery clear'd their way ? — 

That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes, 

Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows, 

Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs 

Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines, 

Threatening such change as to the awful freaks 

Of summer lightning, ere the tempest breaks. 



* For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were 
ornamented, see the Epicurean, chap. 10. 



tt*=: 



ALCIPHRON. 



43A 



But, to my point, — a youth of this vain school, 
But. one, whom Doubt itself" hath fail'd to cool 
Down to that freezing point, where Priests despair 
Of any spark from th' altar catching there, — 
Hath, some nights since, — it was, methinks, the night 
That folio w'd the full moon's great annual rite, — 
Through the dark, winding ducts, that downward stray 
To these earth-hidden temples, track'd his way, 
Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me, 
The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see, 
Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary. 
The clangour of the marvellous Gate, that stands 
At the Well's lowest depth, — winch none but hands 
Of new, untaught adventurers, from above, 
Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move,— 
Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh : — 
'T was the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky, 
Had been observed, curiously wandering round 
The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground. 

Instant, th' Initiate's Trials were prepared, — 
The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dared, 
That Plato, that the bright-hair'd Sarnian* pass'd, 
With trembling hope, to come to — xuhat, at last? 
Go, ask the dupes of Mvst'ry ; question him 
Who, mid terrific sounds and spectres dim, 
Walks at Eleusis; ask of those, who brave 
The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave, 
With its seven starry gates ; ask all who keep 
Those terrible night-myst'ries where they weep 
And howl sad dirges to the answering -breeze, 
O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities, — . 
Amphibious, hybrid things, that died as men, 
Drown'd, hang'd, empaled, to rise, as gods, again; — 
Ask tkem, what mighty secret lurks below 
This sev'n-fold mystery — can they tell thee ? No ; 
Gravely they keep that only secret, well 
And fairly kept, — that they have none to tell ; 
And, duped themselves, console their humbled pride 
By duping thenceforth all mankind beside. 

And such th' advance in fraud since Orpheus' time, — 

That earliest master of our craft sublime, — 

So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud, 

From the great Orphic Egg have wing'd abroad, 

That, still to' uphold our Temple's ancient boast, 

And seem most holy, we must cheat the most; 

Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round 

In pomp and darkness, till it seems profound ; 

Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind, 

With changeful skill; and make the human mind 

Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray, 

But by the Priest's permission, wins its way, — 

* Pythagoras. 



Where, through the gloom as wave our wizard rods, 
Monsters, at will, are conjured into Gods; 
While Reason, like a grave-faced mummy, sranos 
With her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands. 

But chiefly in the skill with which we use 

Man's wildest passions for Religion's views, 

Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds, 

Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds. 

And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil 

Hath, for our use, scoop'd out of Egypt's soil 

This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes. 

Gardens, and palaces, where Pleasure reigns 

In a rich, sunless empire of her own, 

With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne; — 

A realm for mystery made, which undermines 

The Nile itself, and, 'neath the Twelve Great Shrinei 

That keep Initiation's holy rite, 

Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light, 

A light that knows no change — its brooks that run 

Too deep for day, its gardens without sun, 

Where soul and sense, by turns, are charm'd, surprised 

And ali that bard or prophet e'er devised 

For man's Elysium, priests have realized. 

Here, at this moment, — all his trials past. 
And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last,— 
The young Initiate roves, — as yet left free 
To wander through this realm of mystery, 
Feeding on such illusions as prepare 
The soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wear 
All shapes and hues, at Fancy's varying will, 
Through every shifting aspect, vapour still : — 
Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown, 
By scenic skill, into that world unknown, 
Which saints and sinners claim alike their own; 
And all those other witching, wildering arts, 
Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts, 
Ay, ev'n the wisest and the hardiest, quail 
To any goblin throned behind a veil. 

Yes, — such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear, 

Mixt with his night-dreams, from his atmosphere j 

Till, if our Sage be not tamed down, at length, 

His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength, 

Like Phrygian priests, in honour of the shrine,— 

If he become not absolutely mine, 

Body and soul, and, like the tame decoy 

Which wary hunters of wild doves employ, 

Draw converts also, lure his brother wits 

To the dark cage where his own spirit flits, 

And give us, if not saints, good hypocrites,— 

If I effect not this, then be it said 

The ancient spirit of our craft hath fled, 

Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath chased 

To hiss its soul out in the Theban waste. 



THE END. 



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